


Up there in the mountain

by voreishot69



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Incest, Translation, Translation to English
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 39,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voreishot69/pseuds/voreishot69
Summary: It’s strange seeing the love of your life for the first time when he's pointing at you with a gun inside of a jewelry store. But he’s heard stranger things.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Arriba en la montaña](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408061) by [lobazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobazul/pseuds/lobazul). 



> Translated original author’s notes:  
> Pairing: Sergio alias “The professor”/Andrés de Fonollosa alias “Berlín”  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own any right over La casa de papel | Money heist and it’s characters, as evidenced by the fact the “Bella ciao” scene didn’t end in rough sex on the table.  
> Warning: SPOILERS of the first 9 chapters of La casa de papel | Money heist.  
> Fic by-product of the cerebral damage produced that the last scene of the ninth chapter of the series. Possible discordances with canon. Ela’s fault (like everything).
> 
> Translator’s notes:  
> This is my first translation. You can leave suggestions in the comments, that would help me a lot. :)  
> Keep in mind this is only based on the series up to the "Bella Ciao" scene, when we didn't know Sergio and Andrés were brothers and the heist hadn't finished yet.  
> PLEASE, support the original author, she’s my goddess and I thank her for letting me translate her beautiful work --> [lobazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobazul/pseuds/lobazul)

**Up there in the mountain**

_E seppellire lassù in montagna,_

_sotto l'ombra di un bel fior._

_(Bury me up there in the mountain,_

_under the shadow of a beautiful flower.)_

- _Bella Ciao_ , partisan song.

An intermittent ringing imposes to the distant rumor of traffic and the omnipresent dull thud of doors constantly opening, letting in a mandatory cohort of doctors, nurses and relatives in different states of preoccupation. Andrés’ is the only one that has stayed in the spot. Sergio knows that it will not open until some hours later, when the head nurse appears to check the state of the ill and administrate the next dose of the drug that keeps him sedated, without pain.

Through the window, he contemplates from the heights a portion of the outskirts of Madrid. Wide and straight streets, parks, arranged traffic and some little stores where wealthy looking families go in and out, enjoying the primaveral atmosphere, outsiders to heavy air of the private clinique. Here and there, some bank offices, which Sergio’s strategist brain registers instinctively, working out possible heists and getaways without realizing, on autopilot. He does that now and then: observes the surroundings of some interesting bank or shop, scribbles plans, drafts routes in a notebook.

Only for pure enjoyment, obviously. He’s never going to rob again.

He doesn’t need to take a chance when he’s _already_ immensely rich

Bored, he steps aside from the window, leaving behind the tranquility of the residential neighborhood to return to the heavy ambient of the room. The warm tone of the walls, the luxurious furniture and the modern equipment fail to mask reality. They can’t banish the shadow that had laid on Andrés when he arrived to that floor at the exclusive private clinique. The last one. The one with the palliative treatment. The one the ill abandon covered in cloth.

There, almost sunken in the big bed that rather looks like the mattress of a hotel suite, lays Andrés’ body, fragile, broken, wasted away by months of slow agony. Impotent in a fight with an enemy against which nothing can be done, but sitting to wait until it consumes you slowly, it reduces you to nothing. An enemy so cruel that before ending with you it ends with your essence. The one that a long time ago erased Andrés from this world, his eccentric personality and his wild intelligence, leaving behind an empty vessel.

Despite that, Sergio finds himself unable to leave.

He can’t leave him there, -like it was agreed- in the arms of a slow and sweet death. He can’t abandon Andrés even if he knows Andrés has abandoned him a long time ago, his conscience drowned in the deep sea of his degenerative illness, lost forever.

He can’t do it, despite he promised.

As he promised him so many things.

So, while life flows outside the floor of death, Sergio seats carefully between the tangle of cables and screens that encircle the death bed of his old friend and lover, takes with care his flaccid hand while on his lips comes up, automatically, the chorus of an old italian song.

_“O Bella ciao, ciao, ciao.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Sergio wasn’t cut out to be a delinquent.

Until he met Andrés.

Math teacher, programmer in his free time, district chess champion and citizen model, of the ones who never get the trash out outside of the established schedule. No one -not even himself- would’ve imagined him preparing a strike to Spain’s Royal Mint.

But Andrés walked into his life.

“Everyone on your knees and don’t do anything you’ll regret.” It was the first time he heard his serene tone, muffled by a ski mask. “Do what I say and in five minutes I’ll be gone, deal?”

It’s strange seeing the love of your life for the first time when they’re pointing at you with a gun inside of a jewelry store. But he’s heard stranger things.

“I hope no one ever asks us how we met.” Sergio murmured the first time they spent the night together.

Andrés laughed.

“You looked really handsome that day.”

“I was scared shitless.”

“That made you even more handsome.”

“Asshole.”

“Please, tell me something I don’t know.”

Sergio was scared shitless, indeed. Having in mind he had entered that jewelry store, not convinced enough, to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend, and a moment later he was on his knees with his hands on his nape, while the hooded emptied, with all the tranquility of the world, the diamond cabinet; it wasn’t an odd reaction.

But Andrés didn’t like to remember that:

“It was a butch. It’s a shame you were there to see it.” he used to say, frowning. “A shitty heist unworthy of me.”

“But you got away with it. You escaped.”

“I normally don’t need to escape.”

That day things got complicated and the scared-shittless math teacher ended up being the guy with a gun’s only hostage. And that’s how -locked in a vault, with the promise of blowing his brains out, between negotiation and negotiation- Sergio and Andrés spent the first hours of their story together.

At some point, the thief took his mask off.

Sergio swallowed.

“Now that you’ve seen my face, I should kill you.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

He would’ve done it, but the professor only knew it later, when he starting developing something like a friendship with the future Berlin.

“I was about to kill you.”

Stranger than meeting the love of your life in a robbery is that they confess something like that the first time they’re undressing you.

Sergio laughed between his teeth, used to Andrés’ sardonic humor. But he kept it serious, looking at him with a slightly arched eyebrow. He choked on his laughter, getting up.

“What?”

“Hey, I’m a thief, what were you waiting for?” Andrés spitted out, his lips outlining an assured smile.

“You would’ve killed me?”

“I would’ve killed any other. I don’t like leaving corpses behind.” he explained in a didactic tone, the one Sergio used to teach square roots to his students. “You had seen my face. I should’ve killed you.”

Surprisingly, he continued with his task while saying that, undoing the professor’s belt delicately while he grazed his neck with his lips. Sergio shivered.

“And why didn’t you?”

He noted him smiling against his skin.

“Because at that point I knew you wouldn’t betray me.”

Andrés was right: it was the fastest Stockholm Syndrome in history. Because half an hour after the armored door of the vault closed behind them, the delinquent’s boredom and the professor’s curiosity won the fight against precaution and fear. At first there only were direct questions from Andrés that got hesitant answers from Sergio; after, as the minutes passed, his replies grew in length and complexity. And after the initial reluctance, Sergio’s words began to show the professor’s true personality: an ironic verb and a brilliant mind that left the astute thief completely fascinated.

Achieved a favorable deal that let him get away with part of the money, he set the professor free with a smile and a promise:

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

And that’s how it went.


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you doing here?” A hurried glance at the sides. A squeeze to his suitcase against his chest, as a shield. “I could report you.”

“But you will not.”

Andrés looked at him with an indolent air while chewing gum, resting his weight on the hood of Sergio’s car. The professor contemplated him, indecisive. Behind him the hubbub of children getting out of school, the echo of the last ring, was still hearable.

And the man that had kidnapped him for hours was staring at him with half a smile on his lips. The only thing that interpose between the two men was an old leather suitcase, full of exams to grade.

He got it down slowly.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated. “How did you find me?”

He once again glanced at the sides while he did, which provoked the delinquent’s smile to widen.

“You’re easy to find, _prof_.” He looked at him from behind his eyebrows. “A boring job, cheap car, a flat with a thousand-year mortgage. Guys like you are easy to find.”

Sergio didn’t even get offended. Lapsed the initial impact of finding a luxurious jewelry store robber resting on his vehicle, the only thing that worried him was a student -or worse, a parent- seeing him holding a suspicious conversation with this stranger. He approached, keeping the suitcase between them.

“What do you want from me?” he mumbled.

“Take me to your place to have dinner.”

He blinked at the proposal.

“My girlfriend’s at home.”

Andrés’ eyes went blank, but he replainished them immediately. He incorporated with his characteristic aplomb, advanced towards him and projected his arm in a parabolic, unexpected and fugacious movement.

A second later, the keys of his cheap car swinged gently in front of his eyes.

“Then, I’ll invite you.” The thief winked at him.

After, he opened the pilot’s door, sitting behind the wheel.

Sergio stayed on his feet for a few seconds, his mind full of doubts and the teenager’s shouting still drilling his ears. The leather suitcase hanged in front of his legs, almost touching the ground, plagued by candy wrappings, husks and empty chip bags.

Finally, he sighed.

He threw the suitcase to the backseat before he sat on the passenger seat of his own car.

“Aren’t you going to blindfold me?” he asked, trying to cover his fear with sarcasm.

Andrés smiled again and adjusted the rear mirror.

“You’ve seen too many movies.”

That day he didn’t only officially meet his future boyfriend - _“Sergio”, “My name’s Andrés”, “Your real name?”, “Obviously, why would I give you a false one?”-_. He also discovered he lived in a fancy house in a private neighborhood.

“It was a football player’s, from the Real Madrid. A really handsome one.”

“I don’t like football.”

Andrés shrugged.

“I do not like football either. But I like football players.”

Sergio held his breath while he ascended the steps of the private garage, noting Andrés smiling behind him.

Another discovery: he cooked like a pro. Specially italian food, as he verified half an hour later, when the thief -turned into the perfect host- laid in front of him a warm plate of pasta that smelled better than anything he had eaten in the last month.

“I love pasta. My grandmother used to make it frequently.” Andrés stared at him with interest from above his plate. “My grandfather fought against the nazis with the partisans. From the war he brought a fondness for italian food and a couple of songs.”

“Someday you can teach me one.” replied Andrés, softly.

The insinuation of another encounter made Sergio stop eating his _spaguettis_ and finally verbalize the question that had been floating in his mind all evening.

“So, what are your intentions?”

His host stared at him for a long time, raising his wine cup to his lips with a casual air to drink a bit.

“I would say both of us know,” He replied after a long silence, making the professor breath heavily on his seat. “but you’re gonna say you’re not one of those. No, they’re _never_ one of those.” He lowered his voice on an ironic tone, to return to a serious one a moment later. “Actually my main goal is to discover and bring to light your potential.”

The professor, still knocked out by the thief’s insinuation, stared at him blankly.

“My… potential?”

Andrés stood up with a movement as unexpected as elegant, feline. The same one with which he started circling the table, approaching him with the cup still in his hand. With the serenity of a predator stalking its prey.

Sergio found himself completely incapable of running off, cornered.

“Your potential, Sergio.” he murmured, almost whispering, bending over in a maddening pace until he was at his height. “That’s what you got in here.”

Andrés’ free hand moved to roze the professor's forehead with his index finger, just above his glasses. He kept still, rigid to contact. With Andrés’ face a couple inches away.

“I don’t understand.” 

“You’re too intelligent to be a good guy.” he explained, enigmatic, still poking his forehead with the tip of his finger. “You’re too brilliant for a shitty life.”

“I don’t have a shitty life.”

“Oh yes, you have one. But don’t worry.” His hand slipped up, touching his hair. Almost caressing him for an instant to move away a moment later. “That’s going to change. I will bring out the crime genius you have in there. I’m going to teach you a lot of things, Sergio. And ” He winked at him, starting to walk away. “you’re going to like all of them.”


	4. Chapter 4

No one noticed.

Not his family, not his coworkers, not his students, neither -of course- his girlfriend.

Only Andrés.

“Think, plan. Contemplate very possibility, every little detail. Elaborate a solution for everything that could go wrong. And then, act.”

Sergio visited Andrés’ house again.

A lot of times.

“I baked _calzone_ , you’ll love it.”

Andrés in front of the school, again, but now behind the wheel of his own car, a black jeep with tinted windows. Sergio had his own car keys in his hand.

“I’m not sure abou…”

_“Come in.”_

He came in.

It was the second time and it was because he didn’t want to argue, because he didn’t know how to say no without giving a show and because -why deny it- that strange man inspired his curiosity, coupled with other more mundane feelings.

“Not to criticize you but ” he commented while he put on the seatbelt. “this car of yours screams ‘dangerous delinquent’ from its four sides.”

Andrés laughed quietly while he stopped politely at a traffic light.

“If you look at my record, you will find no stain. No clews, no track to follow.” He turned his head to look at him. “All my money is justified. Inherited.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel while he started the engine again. “That’s the trick, prof.”

“Trick for what?”

“For being a dangerous delinquent and getting to live like an honored citizen.”

It was the second and last time Andrés had to insist for him to join him. Because what waited for him inside that luxurious mansion triggered Sergio’s mind just like the food stimulated his salivary glands.

Knowledge.

On the lounge table, Andrés had disposed plans, aerial photographs, maps marked with pins, notebooks scribbled with his elegant rich kid calligraphy. He let Sergio examine everything while they devoured the _calzone_ in mouthfuls. Then, he threw a question that was more of a bait. 

“Are you smart enough to help me with this?”

In the following weeks, some students watched how, at least once every week, their math teacher disappeared inside of a black jeep that drove away following scrupulously the speed limits. In the corners of hallways the topic started to come up; a janitor asked Sergio if he’d been hired by a secret agency. The professor laughed.

He should’ve cared about being seen, but he didn’t. Neither he cared about his girlfriend leaving him, after feding up with his inexplicable and more frequent absences. He couldn’t help it. He was absorbed, almost obsessed; he arrived at Andrés’ place with the urge of a thirsty one approaching an oasis.

There he found what that intelligent but ill boy never had, that grew up recumbent on a hospital bed. A challenge at the level of his mind, bigger than the hardest chess game or the most complex program. A game in which he ended up being better than anyone. His battlefield.

A mind as sharp as his, fed by a soul as tortured as the one that had converted his existence to a boring monotony. Andrés didn’t need to talk about his past, because it was a thing that poked from behind his shoulders every time he spoke. And they did spoke. Never-ending conversations that prolonged until dawn. Hours of that mind game the two played with a glass of wine in hand and a couple of plain handlings; shiny eyes and a truth the two of them were slowly discovering.

They were professor and student, him learning from Andrés until Andrés found himself learning from him. The thief wasn’t mistaken: properly stimulated, the mathematician's mind had demonstrated to be an authentic warlord’s. Sergio recopilated information methodically, analyzed it systematically, never left a loose end.

Every possibility was contemplated. Every problem previewed. Every exit, covered.

One afternoon, they finished planning their first heist.

The plan was entirely Sergio’s; the performance, Andrés’.

The black jeep parked at Sergio’s door.

They had kept in complete silence the whole ride.

“Are you sure?” Andrés asked, suddenly.

The two of them knew _exactly_ what he was asking.

Sergio turned a little on his seat to look at him in the eyes.

“Completely.”

And the two of them knew, too, what he was promising.

Andrés nodded.

Then, harbored by the darkness of the nightfall, he tilted to kiss him for the very first time.

Sergio could’ve never thought that Andrés would kiss him like that. Softly, with his hand of his nape. Caressing his hair with the other. A kiss that didn’t seem two matures men’s, two robbers’.

Two delinquents’.

Andrés smiled when they broke away and Sergio imitated.

“See you tomorrow.” murmured the first.

“See you tomorrow.” assured the second.

Their plan couldn’t fail.

And it didn’t.

The black jeep appeared again the following afternoon. With its lazy riding, always stopping religiously at the crosswalks, Sergio saw it turn the street’s corner from his window.

He hopped, running to the door.

Before the doorbell rang, he had already opened.

Andrés waited there, fitted with his ironic half-smile and a opaque plastic bag in his hand.

“I’ve got this for you.” he said in way of a greeting, lifting up the bag in front of his eyes, where he guessed was a good quantity of money.

Sergio couldn’t care less about the money, less than a second he took to take away the bag in one go and toss it to the nearest table. Then he shoved Andrés in and closed the door.

He looked at him for an instant -the professor blinking through his glasses; the thief with his eyebrows arched- before pushing him against the door and tangling him -with his hands on his neck, on his chest, everywhere- in a kiss that did not seem to have an end.

Next monday, he stopped going to work at the school.

And only Andrés noticed.

Sergio went from being a model citizen -a responsible teacher, a good taxpayer, a boring holder of a mastodonic mortgage- to an authentic evil genius.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn’t disappear overnight.

Andrés had warned him:

“Don’t leave just like that. Make up a credible alibi. Create a personality to maintain yourself out of any suspicion.”

And that’s how the public school’s math teacher accepted an offer from a private institute that didn’t exist and started to justify his extra income with publications in fake magazines. He sold his place including the mortgage, he registered in a cheap rental flat and went to live to the mansion that had been his refuge for a long time.

It was a little demented decision in men as methodical as them. A proposition made almost as a causality an accepted with the same nonchalant gesture. Barely a glance above maps and plans.

“Here’s your room.”

Turned out that Andrés was a gentleman.

“We’re sleeping separated?”

The professor arched his eyebrows. The robber curved the corner of his lips, without actually smiling.

“I think it’s highly necessary for each one to have their own room. A man needs privacy.” He articulated with his well-known aplomb, but his eyes diverted towards the bed for a second. Was he nervous? Sergio stared at him, fascinated. “I don’t want to pressure you in that aspect.”

“What aspect?”

The professor took a step towards him. Andrés watched him, unshaken.

“Our relationship.”

Suddenly the tables were turned. Part of his mask of indifference, control, collapsed when Sergio was the one to approach him, shortening the distance that up to this moment had been insufferable. With half a smile that didn’t find a reflection on Andrés’ face, Sergio lifted up his hand to place it on the other man’s chest.

“You don’t have to be so gentlemanly.”

“I have received a polished education.” he replied coldly. But his altered breathing betrayed him when Sergio’s hand started to go up towards his neck. “I’m not an animal.”

“Well, it is a pity.”

With a playful smile, Sergio left his hand on his nape, fondling him with his fingers until he noticed the other man’s hair standing up on end. When he hugged him, he felt Andrés’ body tense, on guard. His shoulders stiff, hands glued to his torso.

Far from letting himself unnerve, he tilted his head and kissed his neck.

“Thank you.” he murmured.

Only then he felt Andrés start relaxing. His muscles distended and his arms unglued to ascend slowly, embracing his partner with care. As if he hugged a wounded animal.

Sergio moved away a little, rozing him with his beard until they were face to face. He looked at him in the eyes, then his lips. Andrés held his breath when he felt him come closer.

It was the most exasperatedly long kiss of his life. Lips against lips and all the care in the world. Hands holding back, firmly anchored on the other’s hips, while little by little they allowed themselves to move closer. Deepening the kiss, tilting their heads. Trying to get where they had never gotten while their breathing became heavier.

_ “Stop.” _

It was Andrés who interrupted the moment, moving his partner away with a soft push. Sergio was paralyzed. He combed a rebellious lock, got it away from his forehead to follow Andrés with his gaze when he warded off, turned his back, standing still at the door frame.

He could distinguish perfectly how he lifted his shoulders up and then down again.

“What’s the matter?”

Andrés replied, not turning.

“You shouldn’t fall in love with me.”

Sergio didn’t have to think much about his answer:

“If that’s your advice, it arrived late.”

Andrés raised his head to look at the ceiling. Sergio remained still, fondling the cuffs of his dress shirt. The delinquent turned around seconds later, looking at him with a grimace between solemn and ironic.

“I want you to know, Sergio, ” he vocalized slowly. “that you will always be in time to leave.”

The professor frowned, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t understand.”

The other assented, comprehensive.

“There’s something you should see.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was a huge folder, the same that now must be catching dust on the desk table while Andrés agonizes at the clinic. It was composed by several reports, CDs with radiography, handwritten notes. Sheets full of unexplained acronyms and complicated names.

But the main thing was in the first page. Clear as water.

Sergio stared at it for a while, reading it again and again, as if it was written in a not yet decrypted alphabet. Andrés contemplated him attentively from the armchair.

Finally, the professor raised his head.

“How long?”

The delinquent took a deep breath. He didn’t try to fake indifference.

“It depends in who you're asking. I estimate…” He closed his eyes how he did when he valued the fastest route, trying to concentrate. “about six years.”

Sergio licked his lips and swallowed. He felt sandpaper in his throat, scraping him every time he tried to speak. He nodded, pretending tranquility while ordering the papers. Clenching his fist to try to hide the tremor of his hands.

Suddenly, Andrés extended his arm and grabbed him. Hard.

“You are in time.” he reminded him.

“Fuck off.” growled Sergio, getting rid of his hand in one pull.

He jumped to his feet, threatening to flee to stand still under the door frame. Frozen in front of an invisible barrier. The tears he did not shed burned his eyes.

He heard Andrés moving behind him. Agile and silent like a cat.

“It got out of my hands.” The whisper came from everywhere at once. Sergio didn’t move. “I didn’t expect us to connect _that much_.”

“What do you want from me, Andrés?” He turned around slowly, facing him. Rabid. “What does a man with only six years left to live want from a guy as boring as me?”

Andrés had erased every trace of irony from his face. His eyes were fixed on Sergio's chest when he answered.

“Your gift.”

“My gift?”

“I want you to plan something big. Something that’ll make me, make us, move onto history books.” he started in a murmur, almost timid. Still not looking at him in the eyes. “I want you to be the person who helps me say goodbye at the top. I want…” He looked up. “I want you to be my general, and me your captain.”

Sergio swallowed so ostentatiously that Andrés followed with his eyes the movement of his adam’s apple.

He hadn’t moved an inch, but he suddenly looked closer. The air between them, thicker.

“That’s what I want from you, _prof_. That and… everything else you wish to give me.”

He gave him everything.

He had gave him everything.

Staring at Andrés' lifeless body, Sergio thinks about how he gave himself to him during those six years that ended up being almost eight. How he made his memory his cause, his great farewell the big work of his life.

Starting with that night.

After the confession -so sincere, so absent of double meanings, so strange on the lips of the sarcastic and presumptuous white glove thief- Sergio was silent for a long time. He doesn't deny it, the possibility of leaving crossed his mind. He knew he could do it: go out the door and use his rediscovered gift to build a new life.

One where his soulmate wasn't terminally ill.

But the professor had made resistance his way of life. His grandfather had not only bequeathed him his fondness for pasta and the partisan anthem; he had also spoken of honor and camaraderie, of ideals and struggle. He had told him how one endures when one knows that he is surrounded by an army of evil. He had taught him that there are ideals worth killing and dying for.

And that was the moment when the outline of the great plan started to poke in his mind.

“Agreed.” he whispered, still lost in the big maze of his thoughts.

“Will you do it?”

Andrés’ face lit up. He outlined a smile that had little to do with his usual mocking grin. Sergio took off his glasses, wiping them with his shirt as the idea began to take shape.

“I’ll do it.” He nodded, putting on his glasses again. “But it’ll take time.”

“How much?”

“Years.” he honestly said, looking at him seriously. “Two or three for preparation. One to train the adequate group.”

“Will it be worth it?”

“I wouldn’t propose it if I wasn’t sure.”

The robber allowed himself, finally, to smile.

“I don’t care.”

Sergio responded with a snort.

“I'm glad you don’t. And now, can we go back to where we left it?”

Andrés examined him for a moment, as if he hadn't understood the insinuation. But he had, oh yes, because immediately he started unbuttoning -with slow, careful movements, his fingers dedicating just the right amount of time on each button- his vest.

“With pleasure.”


	7. Chapter 7

A couple of years later, he’d tell him:

“You’ll have to seduce whoever’s the guy they’ll put in charge, the inspector. Oh, right…” Andrés made a studied pause, curving his lips. “the woman they’ll put in charge.”

Sergio -who was at that moment playing a chess game on his laptop- barely blew some air through his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Or course it won’t be much of a problem, having in mind you’re bisexual.”

_ Checkmate. _

Effectively, he is. Although his lover, partner in crime and friend was the first and only person -besides himself- to realize.

“You..?”

“No, no.” He shook his head in an eager gesture, as if the doubt had offended him. “I am completely gay. Of course, if I have to sleep with a woman for business, I do it. In fact, I’ll probably have to do it during the heist. But it’s only labor.” He looked at him for a moment from above the book he was reading, comfortably settled on the sofa. “Like your thing with that inspector.”

“We still don’t know if they’ll put a man or a woman.”

“It’ll be a woman.” He turned the page.

“And I still don't understand that ‘seducing her’ thing.”

"You will." he replied, distractedly.

Very slowly, with an expression that his boyfriend knew very well, Sergio closed the laptop lid. Studying him with narrowed eyes.

“What if I don't want to?” he muttered.

“Well, the plan will be fucked. Because a police officer won't let you get close enough to put a mic on their phone and be able to follow all their steps. Unless, of course, you have them eating from your hand.”

“Andrés.” Sergio was beginning to lose his seemingly inexhaustible patience. He took off his glasses, closing his eyes. “No one is going to trust me just because I fuck them.”

“I do.”

Andrés always had an ease for big replies.

And he was smiling, the asshole, pretending to read a book he had long since stopped paying attention to. Sergio realized when he approached, seriously considering the option of shoving it down his throat. Sometimes he managed to drive him completely mad.

"I'm not going to sleep with any inspector." He chewed the words, leaning over him. “And you are not going to fuck any hostage.”

Andrés set the book aside and leaned on his elbow, looking at him from below. He didn't seem impressed by his incipient anger.

“Why?”

“Because we are together.”

"We won't be at the time of the robbery." he replied with aplomb, drilling him with his cold gaze. “You already know the rules: no relationships between team members.”

The professor bit his tongue to contain an insult, in addition to the desire to grab him by the throat and punch him. Instead, he turned around, clenching his fists as he approached the nearest window.

A boy was riding a bike on the opposite sidewalk. Sergio knew him; sometimes Andrés would greet him on the street and ask him about school.

"I'm going to tell you one thing and I'm going to say it only once:" he began. He didn't turn to see if he was listening, he knew he was. “It doesn’t matter how much time you spend inside. Or how many people we have to sleep with for business. Or...” He took a breath. "Even if they kill you there, Andrés. I’ll always, always be with you.”

He heard Andrés’ sigh in the background. But he ignored it. He was busy watching the sunset behind the window.

That day invisible tears stung him from behind his eyes.

Rather than hearing him approach, he felt him, because, even if Andrés moved like a cat, Sergio had developed a sixth sense that warned him of his presence. The smell of his expensive cologne reached his nostrils an instant before his lover's chest landed against his back. An arm circled his waist, pressing him against his body.

Not even then, Sergio moved. Andrés' chin on his shoulder.

He only grabbed his hand when he felt it tremble a little, in one of the first symptoms of his illness.

And they stayed there, in silence, until they were surrounded by darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

The afternoon of his arrival to the house, however, Andrés's hands were sure and firm.

“Have you ever slept with a man?”

“Why are you asking me if you already know the answer?”

Andrés had asked that after confessing that he’d intended to kill him, and all that. A pleasant change of conversation, he couldn’t deny it. Although it was still not a topic which Sergio was enthusiastic about.

“To put you a little in evidence, why would it be.”

He had no choice but to laugh, because the bastard knew his charm, neatly folding the professor's dress shirt before leaving it on the nearest piece of furniture. Sergio wondered if even while making love he was still a maniac of order.

“Well, no.”

“I knew it. You're boring even for that.” He approached him again, naked from the waist up. “Surely she was your lifelong girlfriend, from high school.”

“University.” he pointed out even though Andrés' hands were already on his chest.

The thief sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I don't know what I’m doing with you.”

“Well, look, me neither.”

By then, Andrés had already told him some of his hunter’s battalions for other people's goods, and Sergio was not surprised about him having seduced some highborn ladies to the point they had given him, as little lambs, full access to their bank accounts. He distilled a hypnotic magnetism, a way of being that was both attractive and dangerous. Like the bottom of a steep cliff which, despite everything, you can't help taking a look at.

Eager to know what's at the bottom of the abyss.

That was Andrés: a deep, bubbling and burning chasm that at the same time gave him life. That was leading him irremediably to his downfall.

That gave him the best years of his existence.

They kissed desperately as they finished unbuttoning their pants.

Sergio groaned in his mouth when he felt for the first time, hard, hot, another man. It was so different that he thought his eyes would slip out of their orbits. So overwhelming that it made him lose his mind for a few seconds. He found himself rubbing instinctively against his partner as he pressed his face against his neck.

Andrés's laugh was like a jug of cold water.

“Eh, eh, eh.” He stopped him with a delicate movement, because even in bed the thief was pure elegance, a perfect gentleman. “If you continue this will end soon. And neither you nor I want that.”

He looked at him with arched eyebrows while Sergio rescued his ability to reason.

“No,” he babbled. “I suppose.”

Andrés smiled. He would smile and smile until the end of his days like a predator cornering its prey. And Sergio discovered he liked the role of an animal about to be devoured.

“Do you know what to do?” he asked as he led him to the bed.

"Obviously," he panted indignantly at his lover’s skeptical gesture. “I've seen gay porn.”

The thief's arched eyebrow was the only response he received for a few seconds.

“Predictable, _prof._ Very predictable.”

The professor kissed him to silence, pulling for him to lie on the bed, getting on top, rubbing himself; trying to mess up that perfect chivalry facade a bit. Andrés smiled under the kiss as if guessing his intentions. To his surprise, he didn't complain about being underneath, he let himself be docile, exposing his neck when Sergio required it. Allowing himself to be grabbed by the wrists. Staying still until Sergio sat up a little and crossed his gaze with his own.

“And now that?” he mocked.

Sergio was breathing heavily.

After a few seconds, he let go. Sitting on his heels.

Andrés sat up while staring at him. He perfectly read the confusion painted on his lover's face. He kissed him softly, feeling how he trembled in anticipation. That day his hands lowered his briefs with total certainty. The professor swallowed when he felt touch him there.

“Will you stop if I ask you to?” he asked hesitantly.

“Always.”

From his first time with a man he would always remember Andrés didn’t stop kissing him; mouth, neck, back, hands. It seemed like the thief wanted to calm his nerves with his lips, taking his time to relax him before moving on.

He would always remember Andrés, who was indeed a complete gentleman until the end, climbing behind his back and licking every piece of skin at his reach for so long that in the end it was Sergio who begged him to do it. And the big asshole took a little longer, stroking his hair, smiling against his cheek.

He will never forget what he felt when Andrés first penetrated him and, even then, despite the pain, he swore never to share his body with anyone else.

It was one of many promises he could never keep.


	9. Chapter 9

The plan was never his.

“My father was a robber.”

He rarely managed to surprise Andrés, but that time he did. The thief stared at him for several seconds. Between his fingers waited, and waited unsuccessfully, a half-placed bishop.

“What?”

"He was killed at a bank." Sergio brushed some hair away from his forehead, adjusting his glasses. “They shot him full of holes…”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“It’s... it’s not something that I go around telling everyone, understand me.”

“I understand that you don't tell the cashier while he is charging you, but for God's sake, I'm a thief!” Andrés seemed truly indignant. He released the bishop without the slightest care, stumbling over several pawns that rolled down the entire board. “And me thinking you were a great guy, and…”

" _I am_ a great guy," said the professor, still looking down at the remains of his massacred army. “My father's story marked me so much that I strived to live within the law. I haven't even gotten a traffic ticket, ever. You described me very well.” He looked up at his face. “A boring job, a thousand-year mortgage and a shitty life.”

After the initial surprise, Andrés bit his lip, smiling.

“But that's no longer like that.”

“No.” the professor agreed. “Not anymore.”

There was a silence. Andrés lowered his head, looking again at the chess board. With a casual air, he began to reposition the fallen pieces.

“I knew you had something inside. I always knew it, since the day I met you.” he commented, not looking at him. “No hostage behaved like you. You were not scared.”

“Oh, believe me, I was.”

“You were fascinated. As if it all was a game.” His fingertips caressed one of the empty boxes, as if he wanted to engrave his touch. Sergio looked away for a few seconds. “It is a game. It is your game. You play it better than anyone.”

The professor did not answer.

Moments later, Andrés’ hand left the board to grab his wrist.

“Why did you tell me? About your father, I mean.”

Sergio stared at him.

“Because I had an idea. But it's not really mine. It’s his.”

“I’m listening.”

“Come.”

Sergio led Andrés to his room - _a man needs privacy_ \- where he searched for a few seconds in a messy bundle of papers he had left on the nightstand. Andres waited patiently, ignoring the careless chaos that reigned around him.

“Here you have.”

The plan passed from his hands to those of Andrés.

“The National Coinage and Stamp Factory?” asked the robber moments later, arching his eyebrows.

And when he looked back at Sergio, he was no longer looking at the quiet chess player, the gentle math teacher, always polite, somewhat shy.

Instead he met with man with bright eyes, face flushed with excitement. A cruel half-smile dancing on his lips as he poked with his finger the folio which Andrés still held in his hands.

“We're not going to steal, Andrés. We're not going to steal.” he murmured with the fervor of one who has been thinking about the same idea for days. “We are not going to take anyone's money. We are going to make it ourselves.”

"God, you're crazy." he replied, smiling.

“No, I'm not crazy. It can be done. We’ll do it. Of course, we have to plan it very well. We need to find the right equipment.” He paused briefly. “You will lead.”

"I'll be your captain." He raised his eyebrows.

“And I the general who will orchestrate everything in the shadows.”

Andrés reached out, grabbing his neck and looking at his lips.

"It's more than I would’ve dared to dream." he murmured, lowering his voice.

"And after everything happens, we’ll be remembered as heroes." said the professor, taking a deep breath. “You will be remembered as a hero.”

Sergio knew he would hit the spot. Andrés had strange ideas about chivalry and honor. He had an obsession with giving a good impression, something odd in someone who dedicated his life to stealing money from others. That's why he always executed his plans cleanly, trying to minimize the blood. No collateral victims.

“A hero?”

The professor replied, even though his lover was already leaning over his lips.

"We will use part of the money for a good cause." he whispered between kisses and kisses. “People will say we fight for their freedom. Like in the partisan song.”

“The what song?”

Andrés separated, looking at him with an expression between amused and amazed. The teacher continued, planting another wet kiss on his mouth before answering.

“A song my grandfather taught me.”

“Oh, right. Your grandfather the partisan. And what’s that song about?”

At that point Sergio already knew Andrés enough to recognize that absent tone, that way of eating him with his eyes while pretending to listen to him. He was aware that in less than ten minutes the two of them would be sweating on the bed. But still, he replied.

“A soldier who faces his own death.”

Andres chuckled.

“Adequate.” was his only comment.

Then he put his arms around him, pulling him close to his body and cutting off any conversation about soldiers or songs.


	10. Chapter 10

_ “E seppellire lassù in montagna…” _

“Mr. Martinez?”

Sergio turns around in a jump, surprised when he contemplated melancholically the explosion of color that was the sunset -Andrés said it was because of pollution. _Fucking Andrés and his realism_ -. Under the frame of the door is the doctor who takes care of him, offering him a smile between tired and understanding.

“Sorry I was…”

“It’s ok.” She wraps him in a look of grief as she closes the door. “Do you need anything, Salvador?”

Sergio shakes his head, not being surprised. He knows perfectly the image he projects, with that studied mix of beard, glasses and a slightly wrinkled suit that manages to awaken compassion and sympathy in anyone. Helpless and harmless.

“No, thanks.” he replies politely, then pointing in Andrés’ direction. “How is he?”

The doctor approaches the patient's bed, pretending to check some data. As if it wasn't all clear, at this point.

“Stable.” she responds. Sergio had already learned that this word, sometimes, is all a doctor can offer to a family member who is waiting. He has also learned what follows. “Listen…”

Listen. Sergio already knows what he’s going to hear, but he still listens attentively, his hands crossed in front of his body, his harmless pose maximized. It’s his disguise and he dominates it professionally; his shield against the rest of the world.

He listens.  _ You have to prepare for the worst  _ and _ irreversible situation  _ and _ last wishes of your brother _ and many more expressions he had heard before, specifically inside his head. Because he has known for a long time that Andrés is dead; now he’s just waiting for an official stamp to certify it.

So he listens. And he acts like he’s about to collapse although the truth is that he has long since left the pain of the loss behind. And he thanks her when she puts a hand on his shoulder, knowing that if he wanted to, she could go further.

Andrés would like it.

“You have to rework your life.” he said not long ago.

“Look Andrés, I will rework whatever I really want.”

In the end the doctor leaves the room without anything else happening, because for him the flirtations, innuendoes and abandoned puppy looks with which he managed to soften any potential victim were also over.

And he turns back to the window, humming between his teeth.

_ “E seppellire lassù in montagna, sotto l'ombra di un bel fior.” _


	11. Chapter 11

“Promise me one thing.”

Andrés opened the small case which Sergio had brought hours before, taken out of a pharmacy thanks to a counterfeit prescription. He frowned when he saw the syringe, the leaflet folded over the small glass jars, perfectly aligned.

Sergio was rolling up his sleeves.

“What?” he asked without paying much attention, busy picking up the syringe, injecting it into one of the jars, extracting the exact amount of liquid.

He didn’t get impressed by injections. As a sick child, he had received many. And his mother, a nurse, had ended up teaching him how to give them.

Andrés clenched his teeth as he let his hand be grabbed.

He only answered when he stopped feeling the sting of the medicine spreading inside his muscles.

“Promise me you won't see me die.”

Sergio almost dropped the syringe.

“What?”

The thief shook his hand, swearing between teeth. He stood up with a clumsy movement, far from his usual elastic motions. Sergio frowned, studying him from top to bottom.

"That you won't see me die." he growled, facing him with a gesture of irritation. "I don't want you to be there when... I don't want you to see me look like crap, unable to move, pissing through a fucking probe, connected to a respirator. I don't want you to witness my degradation.”

It was not typical of Andrés to speak like that. Sergio was so impressed that he couldn’t react.

“But I want to be by your side until the end.”

"Well, _I_ want you to leave." he said firmly, giving him a hard look. “I want you to disappear as soon as they have to enter me. Anyway, you won't miss me. I can die by myself, without you having to sit next to me, holding my hand like a fucking widow.”

His words distilled a poison which Sergio was unable to bear. He swallowed, looking away.

“Ok. If that's what you want…”

“It's what I want.”

"I promise I'll leave, then." He ran a hand over his face, stroking his beard. “Although I don’t understand.”

“You don’t get it?”

Sergio turned to him. Andrés had gone to the bar cabinet, pouring himself a glass of liquor. He put it up to his lips.

“No, I don’t understand.”

He drank with his eyes closed. Relishing the taste. He sighed.

"Look at me, Sergio." he finally replied, pointing to himself. He looked as elegant as ever. Perfectly ironed trousers and dress shirt, scrupulously shaved cheeks, somewhat sparse but well combed hair. Aristocratic pose while sitting on the couch with the cup still in hand. “Look at me and have the balls to tell me you don't understand why I don't want you to see me dying. Why I don't want to look at me with disgust.”

Sergio shook his head.

“You'll never disgust me.”

“I will.”

“You're wrong.”

He was wrong.

He has never been disgusted. Not even when he began to be unable to walk. Or when he had to practically take him to the bathroom. Or when he ended up bedridden, as he predicted, with a machine that insufflated air into his lungs and a tube that extracted urine from his bladder.

Even now, seeing him slowly agonize, turned into a pale shadow on the bed, he isn’t inspired by another feeling than the one on the very first day.

And, breaking his promise, he approaches his side and grabs him by the hand.

Waiting for everything to end to finally bury him up there in the mountain.


	12. Chapter 12

It was always there, accompanying him. That dark side

“You'll have to punish me.”

He said it for the first time after the Champs Elysees, his eyes glazed because of the alcohol and his shoulders sunk. That had been a heist too big; even Andrés’ expertise couldn’t help leaving a victim along the way.

Sergio had seen it in the news, the day before. A man from the gendarmerie died during the persecution.

“He rammed me with the car. I dodged it narrowly.” the thief recalled, in a monotonous voice. “He crashed. Dead in the act, and his partner in the ICU.”

Sergio had also seen the images, recorded from a helicopter. It was hard to imagine his lover inside the stolen car that was seen dodging other vehicles at a devilish speed, zigzagging with a skill worthy of a rally driver. His heart had stopped when he saw him disappear from the viewing angle of the camera, and it only started to beat again a day later, when the black jeep made its way into the property.

“Andrés!”

His greetings weren’t usually very effusive, but that afternoon he couldn't help running towards him, squeezing him tightly in his arms. Andrés didn't reject him, but he didn’t return the hug. Absent

“I'm tired.” was the only thing he said. Leaving the sports bag loaded with diamonds on the floor. “I'm going to bed.”

And without adding anything else, he disappeared to his room. Leaving him standing there, with the diamonds at his feet and the face of the biggest fool in the world.

Only hours later he dared to enter the bedroom.

Andrés pretended to be asleep.

“It wasn't your fault.”

“Leave me alone.” he answered, not opening his eyes.

The professor ignored it. He approached the bed, circling it so he could lie on the unoccupied side. Andrés growled when he felt the weight on the mattress, but remained silent while Sergio settled beside him.

The professor knew he was exposing himself to spur his anger, but he didn't care. He had missed him too much to keep away. He put an arm over him, approaching his body. Brushing his cheek with his lips.

“I'm happy that you're here.”

Andrés remained silent.

But when Sergio sat up a little to be able to kiss him on the mouth, he didn't turn his face away. And seconds later, he began to kiss back; at first vaguely, almost without desire. Then, with a growing passion which leaded to a struggle on the bed, tearing clothes off.

“You'll have to punish me.”

He said it completely naked and staring at him from below, laying with his forehead on the pillow. Sergio raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

"Punish me," Andrés repeated, as if it was obvious. “I deserve it.”

The lack of cerebral irrigation caused more difficulty for the horny professor to grasp the idea. He scrutinized his lover's face. Unable to believe what was happening.

“Are you asking me to hurt you?”

“Sometimes it’s good for me to get a little bit hurt.”

Unbelief became a wave of genuine outrage that almost swept desire. He stepped aside a little. Disgusted by the simple idea.

“Look, that’s not my kind of thing. And I would never hurt you, Andrés. Even less, punish you. So don't ask me again.”

“I'll ask you again. And you'll have to do it to keep me at bay.” He turned his head, giving him a look that froze his soul. “Because if you don't control me, your plan may end earlier than planned.”

Sergio shook his head slowly. He had never been so mad at him.

“It's not my plan. It's _our_ plan. And you are perfectly capable of controlling yourself.” Without making too much effort to control his anger, he leaned over him, breathing on the back of his neck. “You are not a murderer, Andrés. As much as you insist on being worse than you are, you've never been a murderer.”

He didn't let him answer.

He didn't hurt him -not consciously- but neither gave him truce nor mercy. Spurred by his anger, he was more rough and direct than usual.

He started by shoving his fingers in his mouth to force him to lubricate them with his saliva; he continued preparing him without any ceremony, entering him, not giving him time to get used to it. But that seemed to be _just_ what Andrés needed. And when Sergio penetrated him, he let out a little scream. Plunging his face into the pillow.

“Do you want me to punish you?” he remembers asking, his eyes still closed by the overwhelming sensation. “You will regret asking for it.”

And he grabbed his wrists, keeping him immobilized while he fucked him with deep and slow thrusts which caused Andrés to tremble beneath his body. He put all his weight on his partner's hands to prevent him from freeing himself and touching himself. His lover barely let out a couple of protest noises, surrendering to his will.

But Sergio had something else ready.

When he felt Andrés about to cum, he pulled out abruptly and turned him around, even denying him the relief of rubbing against the bed.

The thief looked at him then, as frustrated as he was surprised. His eyes like plates and his hips thrusting mechanically to the emptiness.

“What…”

“This is your punishment, son of a bitch.”

The professor stood over him, still as pissed off as hot. And why deny it, he enjoyed that thrill of power, the desperate look on Andrés’ face, provoking another little whine when he placed his legs on his shoulders, penetrating him again with a rough push.

He caught one of his hands on the fly when he tried to touch himself. He grabbed them over his head again, giving him a sadistic smile. Andrés clenched his teeth.

“Sergio…”

_“Shut up.”_

And that was his punishment. Having him there for whole minutes, taking him several times to the limit but not letting him finish. Standing dry when he felt he was about to reach orgasm. And although at the beginning Andrés endured it stoically, as the minutes passed he started to claudicate. His poise disappeared as he growled, insulted and even begged. Struggling unsuccessfully to get rid of his prey.

“Please, Sergio.”

It had passed more than half an hour and they were still there. Sergio controlling his movements millimetrically, making the springs of the bed squeak with a perfect cadence. Andrés, completely at his mercy, frustrated and exasperated.

“No.”

He bit his lips as he went in and out at the right pace not to stimulate him too much. To always have him on the edge. And with each movement, Andrés threw his head back, flexing his legs to try to attract him. Striving desperately to create any kind of friction.

_“Please.”_

His pleas were barely a voice. His eyes had clouded, and a treacherous tear ran down his cheek the umpteenth time Sergio prevented him from reaching his desired climax.

Only then he was satisfied.

Leaning over him, he looked into his eyes. So close that his lips brushed when he spoke.

“Beg.”

His lover almost purred like a cat.

“Let me cum.”

“Not that.”

It took Andrés a second to understand.

“Sergio.” He gave up. Too exhausted to fight. Dying to get his release. “Don't punish me, Sergio. Please.”

And only then Sergio let go of his hands, grabbed him by the shoulders and began to thrust into him in a frantic pace. Letting go and giving free rein to what he himself had been containing.

Until Andrés let out a cry of pleasure; until he was struck by a devastating orgasm that left him completely out of his mind for a few minutes.

Sweaty, panting; legs and arms tangled with those of his partner.

Andrés was smiling with his eyes closed.

"Thank you." he heard him mutter after a few minutes.

Sergio just huffed, pulling the sheet to cover their soaked bodies.

But after settling with one arm over his chest, his voice chased him as he plunged into Morpheus' warm embrace.

“You're too good. And you can't be good when you're with a son of a bitch like me.”


	13. Chapter 13

In a way, he did punish him.

“Is everything alright?”

How a sadist in the category of Andrés could become so sensitive and intuitive was a mystery to Sergio. But that’s how it was. His lover had the gift of perceiving the slightest change in his mood. Sometimes, one would even say that he was able to read his thoughts.

And that day he addressed him while reading the newspaper, sitting in his armchair. As elegantly dressed as if he were about to leave for a non-existent office.

“The truth is, no.”

His confession was enough for Andrés to leave the newspaper aside and give him his full attention. The Great Plan, for him, was a priority. The most important thing in the world.

“Tell me what the problem is. I will help you solve it.

Sergio knew he was serious. That Andrés would do _anything_ to make sure the plan worked. That he would kill, if he asked, to be able to launch his strategy.

And there was the problem.

"There’s a flaw in my original plan." he began, taking off his glasses with a tired air. “If I want to fool the police... I mean, if I really want to fool with the police, make them think that they have trapped us and then nail them in the back and remain like heroes in public opinion…”

He stayed quiet.

Andrés came a little closer, placing his hand on his knee.

“Does it have to do with me?” he guessed.

Sergio nodded.

“At some point I have to start filtering your identities. And there lies the problem.” He thought about it for a moment before continuing. “You're not an official delinquent, Andrés. You are not filed. There's no record. There're no tracks. There's no compromising data. We run the risk of not being identified... And if we make it too explicit, it'll not be credible.”

Andrés guessed the rest.

“For your plan to work, I have to let myself get caught.”

Sergio shook his head violently.

“No. I'll make it work differently.”

Andrés pierced him with his eyes.

“If there was another way, _prof_ , you wouldn't have even thought about telling me.” He gave an almost friendly smile and Sergio felt exposed. And not for the first time. “You're too good. You have to start thinking like a criminal.”

"I can't ask you to go to jail." he muttered.

"You can ask me _anything_." Andrés said, shrugging. “But I hope you’ve already thought about an escape plan.”

The professor huffed through his nose, lowering his head.

“It isn’t worth it, Andrés.”

“I mean it seriously.” The thief had reached out again to retrieve his newspaper, but stopped dead. He raised his sight, examining him. “I'm not afraid to go to jail, it's a possibility which I've been contemplating for a long time. But I will not rot inside. Or miss that fun party you're orchestrating.”

In his very short career as an ideologue of crime, Sergio hadn't considered the feasibility of getting someone out from behind bars. But if something had been learned with Andrés, it was to trust what the white-gloved thief called his _gift_. He reflected for a few seconds, doing mental calculations. His father had been in prison more than once; he knew the lapses of time very well.

“I could get you out in a few months.”

“What would you need?”

He looked into his eyes.

“Money, several paid thugs and you to behave well in there.”

Andrés laughed.

“The first thing, you it have done. The last thing,” He tilted his head. “I don't know. I'll try, but I promise you nothing.”

He returned to his reading with a distracted smile.

Sergio pretended to do the same with his notes.

He tried to watch him firmly, completely overwhelmed by what he was feeling. Containing, hardly, the desire to cry. To go to Andrés and confess he loved him as he had never loved anyone. As he would never love anyone again.

That he had never been touched so much, nor would his soul be touched so much, as the day his terminally ill lover did it; gave up several months of his precious freedom, just because he asked for it. Like he had been accepting all his requests for a year; fulfilling his wishes without asking questions, offering him his house, distributing his loot with him. Letting him focus on his plans without asking for explanations, without questioning him, without doing anything other than accepting everything Sergio told him.

Blindly trusting him on which was going to be his ultimate goal. The big heist with which Andrés would put a golden clasp on his career.

And on his life.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Andrés’ calm voice brought him back to reality.

He raised his head. The robber wasn't even looking at him; He was still focused on his reading.

Sergio licked his lips, thinking about how he could express it, how he could tell him. How he could synthesize everything he was feeling in those moments.

“You offer me a lot.” he muttered at the end, unable to say anything else.

Andrés turned a page loudly.

"You give me a lot." he replied calmly, looking at him for only a fraction of a second from above the newspaper.

And Sergio couldn't have answered even if he wanted to. Because a pincer had closed around his throat.

But minutes later, when he left the room, he leaned over Andrés for a moment to kiss him. And the thief smiled to himself, stroking his cheek a little while he kissed him back.


	14. Chapter 14

Compared to the planning of the assault to the Royal Mint, developing the plan to free Andrés was children's play.

“Nothing is going to go wrong, don't worry.”

“I won’t worry.” And it was true.

At first Sergio _worked_ in his own room or in the living room, filling entire notebooks and depleting ink cartridge after ink cartridge. When the mountain of papers threatened to bury them, Andrés let him appropriate what had once been his office.

Sergio made it his headquarters. He cornered the desk, installed his laptop and printer on top, removed the picture frames and filled the walls with photographs, plans, files, lists. He transformed the order into chaos, using every flat surface to accumulate notes and more notes. Extending a large map of the Coinage and Stamp Factory on the ground.

The first time Andrés entered, he sighed.

“God. You’re a fucking mess.”

But he couldn't help smiling when he saw Sergio lying on the floor, dust-stained pants and ruffled hair falling on his forehead. Completely absorbed in his great work. Illusioned like a child.

That curious mixture between absolute genius and walking disaster fascinated the expert thief. More and more frequently, he sneaked into the office furtively, making no noise. Staying in a corner, trying not to disturb while Sergio remained focused on his things.

Sometimes it took whole minutes for him to notice his presence.

Other times it was the professor himself who called him.

“Andrés? I want to show you something.”

He preceded him down the hall, practically hopping with anticipation. Disheveled and with bright eyes, he took off his glasses and cleaned them for the umpteenth time in the morning, unable to keep his hands still. When he saw him like this, Andrés couldn't help thinking of a drug addict in the middle of a rush.

Except that, in his case, there was no need for syringes or pills: it was enough just to squeeze his brain, to create solutions where there were none. Seeing that exit that the rest of the world missed.

That was his drug. The fuel that kept him alive.

He already imagined what he was up to when he saw remains of sawdust on his shirt -he drowned a sigh; why couldn't he be a little less of a disaster?- but even he couldn't avoid a whistle of admiration when he contemplated what was resting on the corner of the desk.

“Wow.”

Sergio widened his smile when he saw Andrés' surprise. He pointed to the model as an artist presents his masterpiece, moving around the desk like a car salesman who cannot wait to point out all the wonders of his product.

“It has taken me several days... Look, it doesn't lack a detail. All exits. All rooms. All plants, holes, weak spots, armored doors... _Everything_.” His eyes went from the model to his lover's face. “Thanks to this, Andrés, we can plan it in detail. Without leaving a loose end.”

Andrés smiled back; he'd disconnected halfway through the explanation, maintaining a suspicious silence which made the professor raise his eyebrows.

"What?”

“I'd fuck you right here.”

The room temperature suddenly seemed to rise several degrees.

Sergio swallowed.

“Do it.”

The robber suddenly huffed through his nose. His dark gaze fixed on Sergio, moving towards him as he struggled not to step on or crush any of the thousands of things that covered the floor. The professor, who saw him coming, carefully grabbed the model, depositing it on a side table, on a bundle of papers.

Just in time.

Andrés grabbed his hips, turned him around and put his tongue in his mouth, all at once. Sergio kissed him back, clutching his shoulders when he noticed a slight dizziness; he vividly imagined how his blood plummeted to concentrate on a single point.

“It really turns me on when you’re all intellectual, _prof_.”

He couldn't answer, because Andrés grabbed his face and continued to eat his mouth, forcing him to breathe deep every time he could as his unique option to stay alive. It took the thief's hands just a few seconds to go down his chest, carefully opening his shirt, unbuckling his belt. He smiled when he heard Sergio moan as he put his hand down his pants.

"Oh, yeah." He lowered his voice several tones. Sergio rolled his eyes. “Today you'll moan a lot.”

It turned out that Andres _did_ keep his promises.

He could never go back to that room without blushing a little when he remembered himself prostrated on the desk: the open shirt, the pants lowered to the ankles and his lover thrusting into him from behind, dangerously grinding the furniture's legs, causing the computer monitor to almost fall to the floor. And him scratching the polished surface, his glasses sliding down his nose; his moans filling the room like in the most crude porn movie.

He came murmuring his name while Andrés touched him and kissed him on the neck. His eyes unfocused and the glasses finished falling on the desk, slipping out of reach. And half blind, he could only grab Andrés, trust Andrés. Letting herself be hugged by Andrés while he felt the moisture dripping between his thighs.

“Sergio.”

His raspy voice caused a chill. If he opened my eyes, he only saw colored spots with vaguely human shapes. But he turned him around, embracing him in heat and security. And it felt good.

He noticed some kisses on his cheeks, his forehead. His eyelids closed.

“You don't know how much I'll miss this in jail.”

He didn't know if it was a joke or not.

“If you want I can ask for a vis-a-vis.”

Andrés’ laugh vibrated in his own chest.

"You have to keep yourself clean, _prof_." He felt him reach out. A second later, his vision cleared sharply when the glasses came back to rest on the bridge of his nose. Andrés showed him his crooked smile. “You are the only one they can never catch.”


	15. Chapter 15

It was around that time when he disappeared completely. When the Sergio who had militated for some years in Madrid’s public education vanished from the records. And he began to build several false identities, starting with the good guy of Salvador Martínez. The cider entrepreneur.

“ _Buah_. I’ll do this for you in just a moment, fellow.”

And it was in his foray into the falsification business where he met the future Nairobi, who then used another name, as fake as the capital of Kenya one.

“I actually dedicate to money, y'know?” she confessed in her den, chewing gum with a carefree smile. “This thing of the carnets is just for me, a hobby. But the complicated thing is the other. This is easy, _lad_.”

Sergio smiled, nodded and doubted the counterfeiter's mental health during the entire time he spent in her company. But the documents he obtained looked unbeatable; Andrés examined them for a long time before issuing his veredict.

“She’s good.”

“It's flawless.”

“You should account her for the team.”

Andrés no longer looked away when Sergio injected him with the syringe. The injection had become another moment of their day to day, another thing they did together. The professor had even taught him how to do it himself, smiling at his first and clumsy attempts. The two knew that he would need to know how to inject himself when he's behind bars.

The disease progressed, slowly, but inexorably. The symptoms were, for the moment, mild; but they were there. Some sporadic tremor, a cramp, difficulty standing up if he was tired. Negligible discomforts, that nevertheless, were becoming more frequent. Reminding them that a death sentence hung over them.

Although they never spoke openly about it, they reached a tacit agreement to deal with the situation in the most natural way possible. Andrés never protested when he needed help; Sergio never pretended his boyfriend wasn’t going to die. And that's how they learned to understand each other with their eyes. With gestures, more than words.

Sometimes Sergio stared at Andrés and thought that everything had to be a bad dream. That it was not possible that the man beside him, as calm and sarcastic as ever, would die within a period not exceeding a lustrum. That there couldn’t be a world without Andrés and his mocking grin, without his enormous ego, without his obsessive perfectionist zeal.

Sometimes, when he was alone, his eyes stung from all the tears he never shed.

But he knew it wasn't worth crying.

His father and grandfather had raised a fighter.

Or they had tried, because for years he had simply languished, too scared to get out of his burrow. Trying to camouflage in the crowd, anonymous and gray.

But now that Andrés had pushed him to light, and now that he had felt the adrenaline of battle in his veins, Sergio knew surrendering had ceased to be an option. That there was only one possible way, and that was to resist until the end. Fighting to make his ideals reality.

He owed it to all three.

And one day, when it's all over, he would climb the mountain to leave one last flower on the grave of his three partisans.


	16. Chapter 16

Over a year later, Tokyo would ask him:

“Do you really trust Berlin, professor?”

The professor stared at her. He knew that woman was completely loyal to him; her guardian angel, she'd called him. If she'd dared to ask that question, she did it thinking about his well-being.

He took a deep breath.

“Why are you asking that?”

The young woman raised her eyebrow, subjecting him to an intense scrutiny. Sergio endured it without blinking. He knew she was loyal; she knew he wasn't dumb.

“You know why.” She directed a furtive glance around him, an unequivocal signal that she was thinking of being sincere to the fullest. “Listen, none of us here are saints. I have a dead man behind me, Nairobi is fucking demented, Denver has burst more skulls than what he can count up to and Oslo and Helsinki... Anyway, who knows what those two've done. But Berlin is on another level, professor.” She didn't look away from him at any time. “Berlin is a sadist.”

And Sergio knew that nothing she'd said was false.

Despite that, he replied:

“I trust Berlin with my life. It is the only thing I can tell you.”

Tokyo stared at him for a moment more before nodding, ending the conversation and gliding silently out of the room. She probably thought that the professor had been bothered by her questioning one of the team members. She misinterpreted Sergio's low tone and fleeting gaze; the way he turned his back, facing one of the windows.

What the young robber had no way of knowing is that her admired professor had long been aware of the moral tasting of the delinquent gang captain. And the only thing which had surprised him was that it was her -a girl almost a stranger to both of them- the first who had dared to point at the invisible elephant in the room. To aim with her index finger at the naked king.

Because, yeah: Berlin was a sadist.

But above his narcissism, his perfectionism and his honor was a side which Sergio had never dared to explore. A vein so dark that he was at risk of going completely blind if he delved into it. An abyss full of gotesque horrors that sometimes appeared in the eyes of his lover.

Sergio only dared to set foot there when he realized that his Great Plan depended on it.

“There's something I need to talk to you about.”

Andrés was on his favorite sofa reading a book. Inside the house he always looked like a harmless being, a wealthy person who spent his time reading, dressing well and losing one chess game after another. Educated, cultured, gentlemanly. The perfect man.

At least, until he once a again took the gun out of the safe box.

“Tell me.”

He sat next to him. In an automatic gesture, Andrés placed his hand on his knee. He couldn't even accuse him of being vicious or cold. Sergio had never had a partner who respected him so much. Who loved him to the point of trusting him the few years of life that remained for him.

“You know that this heist is going to have rules.”

“Right.”

“I want you to keep them.”

He could see that this surprised Andrés; he wrinkled his forehead, raising his head as he examined him.

“Are you afraid I won't?”

Years later, Sergio would think that what cost him the most in their relationship was that.

Not living with the disease. Not resigning to the idea that the person he loved was going to die.

_ No. _

The hardest part was comparing those two versions of Andrés; that of the conscientious robber ready for everything and that of the lover that made him completely happy in his private life.

The hardest thing was to realize that Andrés was a bad person. And despite that, continue to love him with all his heart.

“I fear, ” he said very softly. “I fear you might like violence too much. That you get carried away and go overboard with the hostages. I fear…” He forced himself to not look away. “that you kill someone, Andrés. That would be the end.”

Andrés narrowed his eyes as Sergio spoke, listening each of his accusations not changing his unperturbed expression. When the professor finished, the hand on his knee moved a little, not breaking the contact.

“So you've finally noticed.”

He'd thought he wouldn't deny it.

He was right.

But even so, him admitting it made his heart froze.

Sergio bit his lip.

“When you're with me, I see you as the best person in the world. No one has treated me like you, ever. But then... I'm afraid of what you can do outside. I believe you’re capable of everything, Andrés.”

“I am capable of everything.”

The hand absently stroked his thigh from above his pants. The other arm curled over his shoulder. With a shrunken stomach, Sergio was drawn to him. Resting his head on his chest.

He felt his lungs fill with air.

"My father taught me." And he knew he had his eyes closed, like when he needed to concentrate. “He was a bad man and taught me how to be like him. Most parents punish their children if they misbehave.” He smiled. “Mine punished me if I behaved well.”

Sergio looked up.

“You're  _ not _ like him.”

“Out of here, I have to be. You can't go for this business when being a good person.” he explained almost sweetly. “If you want a big robbery with hostages to go well, you have to be scary. And if you want to be scary, you have to behave like a real son of a bitch.”

The professor didn't answer.

He leaned back on Andrés. Thoughtful.

“One day you told me I wasn't a murderer.”

“I was wrong.”

“Yeah.”

His lips rozed his temple. Sergio closed his eyes.

"But I will love you forever." he murmured, and heard the thief hold his breath. “It doesn't matter who you kill or what you do. Even after you die. I will love you all my life.”

He didn't look at his lover, but the silence that followed was heavy and eloquent.

“I don’t deserve it.”

"Probably not." He turned his head so he could see him. “You are a son of a bitch. But you are  _ my _ son of a bitch.”

Andrés, very serious, didn't answer.

Sergio took for granted that the conversation had ended.

Too tired to do anything else, he leaned against Andrés, resting his head on his shoulder. The delinquent changed his position so his partner could be more comfortable. He closed his eyes again.

Before falling victim to a sweet drowsiness, he felt how Andrés took off his glasses very carefully, before plunging back into his book.


	17. Chapter 17

Andrés was captured on a summer Saturday, in an empty jewelry store at the time, on a little crowded street, six hundred feet from a police station. His gun only carried one bullet -the one he shot in the air- and the jewelry he demanded from the clerk didn't even reach his hands.

“I want you to know that this isn’t funny to me.”

Last thursday; Sergio and him looked at each other from above the table as in one of their frequent chess games. But there was no board or pieces in between.

“Behave well.”

“Behave well? Do you know what you’re asking me?” He made an exaggerated gesture with his arms. “I have a background! A reputation! You've planned a piece shit of a robbery for me.”

The professor didn’t seem impressed.

“When I met you it was even worse. And you planned that on your own.”

Andrés abruptly lowered his arms.

“That was a very, very repent low blow, _prof_.”

“Focus, for God's sake. You just have to let yourself get caught and confess all your crimes.”

“Ah. Great.” He rolled his eyes, but straightened himself sharply, changing his attitude. “Hey Sergio, tell me one thing. Aren’t the cops going to wonder why a robber as good as me, who has never, and I emphasize, has _never_ been close to being caught, finally tumble after such a butch of a heist?”

Sergio smiled as he used to smile in those cases; widely and with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“At first? No. The cops, who are not really going to catch you, aren’t going to think about those details. They'll be completely euphoric about having caught, with hardly any effort, one of the most elusive robbers in Spain.”

“In Europe.”

“But,” He raised his finger. “ in a month, or two, someone will. Maybe one of them, when they’re collecting evidence to take you to court. Maybe another policeman, envious of the other’s success. Someone intelligent, in any case, will realize that something doesn't fit.”

He paused. Andrés tilted his head.

“And?”

“It's obvious, isn't it?” He widened his smile. “Then they’ll realize that you let yourself get caught.”

He enjoyed his lover's expression of surprise.

_“What?”_

“They will realize that there’s a lure locked up. That you wanted to go to jail for some reason. Then you'll be transferred from a prison to another, we'll acknowledge that in advance, because I have a lad capable of entering the internal police system. You'll be transferred in a van that will drive one of ours with fake credentials and that'll put you in the way of two Serbian brothers who'll get you out of there, safe and sound. There’s room for error, of course.” He put on his glasses. “But I have also contacted people skilled in tunneling. Although I hope, of course, that's not necessary. I wouldn’t like to see you wearing a dirty suit.”

Andrés was speechless.

“And you wanted to spend the rest of your life teaching math?”

Friday morning was dedicated to fine-tune the latest fringes of the plan. Sergio had a lot of homework ahead while Andrés was locked up: he'd sell the black jeep to buy an old caravan with which he planned to tour the central area of the country, looking for a place to establish his headquarters. He'd condition it. He'd finish recruiting the team. And then, he'd wait for the captain who'd lead him.

Friday afternoon and evening was spent in bed.

And at some point Sergio thought of himself as a fool for wishing for time to stop. The sun was falling and a last golden ray was extinguished on its way to the window, highlighting tiny dust particles that seemed to dance in circles. Andrés and him rested with scrambled sheets tangled at their feet. In a room that smelled of sex and the sweat of two men who've been there for _hours_.

He was surprised thinking about it, and he was sure that if he looked at the clock, the hands would’ve stopped. Eternaly and wonderfully caught in that lazy sunset. Frozen in a place where there were no prisons, robberies or terminal illnesses.

Then the sun went down, and with it, also vanished his hopes.

Andrés was kissing his shoulder. Signal that his libido was beginning to stretch and he'd soon be more than ready to start over.

Neither of them said it, but they both knew that this could be their last night together. No plan was free from the threat of failure, even if it was made by a genius like the professor. Something or _everything_ could go wrong. Andrés could die in jail, victim of a fight. Sergio could have an accident when he's looking for a burrow. The release could go wrong, or the police discover their plans on time. The professor could end up languishing behind bars knowing that Andrés was dying a world away.

Maybe that's why it was that night.

“Andrés, you have to promise me one thing.”

"I already told you." His low voice reached him, near his ear. Causing his neck hair to bristle. “I'll behave like a little lamb.”

“No, other than that. Promise me…” He forced himself to turn around, facing him. Holding on to his shoulders. “Promise me that, as bad as things go, you will endure. You will wait for me. You will resist, like the partisans.”

Andrés frowned and Sergio thought he'd kiss him and end the conversation. But, to his surprise, he pulled away a little. As if his lover's words had reminded him of something.

“The partisans. Your grandfather.” he murmured. “Hey, don't you think it's a good time for you to finally teach me that famous song?”

Sergio grew up humming _Bella ciao_ with the same respect with which a religious hymn is sung. But he didn't even know, when he began to recite the first verses, what that anthem would mean to them.

_“Stamattina mi sono alzato, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao! Stamattina mi sono alzato, e ho trovato l'invasor.”_

Sergio sang it once. Andrés repeated. He had some knowledge of Italian and an excellent ear for music, so he soon began to learn it by heart.

_“O partigiano, portami via, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao! O partigiano, portami via, ché mi sento di morir.”_

They repeated it quietly a couple of times. Andrés with his eyes closed to concentrate. Sergio correcting him gently when he commited a mistake.

_“E se io muoio da partigiano, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao! E se io muoio da partigiano, tu mi devi seppellir.”_

Neither could know at that time.

That for whole months that anthem would be the only thing that would unite them.

That they would murmur it in the solitude of their room or their cell.

That they would sing it in duet on the eve of the Great Plan. Sealing a gentlemen's pact that had begun the day one of them had taken the other hostage.

And that several years later, with all the muscles of his body stunted, Andrés de Fonollosa would lose consciousness for the last time in Sergio's arms with the old partisan anthem on his lips.


	18. Chapter 18

Andrés was taken at noon.

At nine, Sergio said goodbye at the door of the house.

Actually, the farewell had begun ten minutes ago and there they still were, kissing in front of the entrance.

“Do you remember everything that needs to be done?” Andrés asked, on his lips.

“Better than you.”

All their properties were on behalf of false name, but the professor knew that didn’t guarantee them anything. By that night, he would’ve moved, leaving behind the house closed and devoid of personal belongings that could relate him to the robber.

There would be no more chats on the couch, no evenings locked in the office, no chess games next to the large windows that overlooked the garden. He would no longer be absorbed contemplating Andrés bustle about in the kitchen, nor would he wake up with his calm breathing at his side.

A little romantically, he hoped to return there. He thought, hopefully, that no one would find those properties camouflaged on behalf of another person. So when it was over -if it ended- Andrés and him could return there, to their refuge, to enjoy the last months they had left together.

“We could not do it.”

What surprised him was that it was Andrés who said so.

The cold thief verbalized the pilgrim idea that had appeared with increasing frequency in his wanderings, during the last months.

“We can continue as always. I steal from time to time, you dedicating to your... things. And when it's all over, well.” Andrés shrugged, hands on Sergio's waist. “You know that what’s mine will be yours, and all that.”

The professor didn’t even know what to say.

“Are you offering for me be your concubine?” He joked, barely forcing a smile.

“Haven't you been all this time?” Andrés showed him a fang.

And God knows he would've given anything to accept.

 _The two_ wished being able to continue their life in peace, letting Andrés’ life languish between sporadic robberies, chess games and sunsets in bed.

But something prevented him.

And it was that _same_ thing that had led them to meet and fall in love.

It was what a grandfather had instilled in his grandson. The need to resist beating behind the old Italian anthem.

It was Andrés' sense of honor, and Sergio's idealism. The way their eyes shone when they examined the model of The National Coinage and Stamp Factory. The firm conviction in turning their lives into something memorable; in fleeing from tranquility and allowing death to hunt them untamed and standing proud. Fighting for their freedom.

So Sergio shook his head.

"Yes, we could not do it." He gently grabbed his wrist, looking at him with that fanatic spark so his. “But we would never forgive ourselves.”

“That's true.”

"This is our battle, and only you and I can win it." Suddenly, his voice broke. “That's why I need you to resist and come back to me. I need you to stay alive, Andrés. We have to win together.”

Andrés gave him a serious look.

“Your wish is my command.”

He tilted his head as he put his hand to his lips. Sergio had to look away, blinking repeatedly to avoid shedding his tears, when he kissed him, first the back and then the palm of his hand. Sighing against his skin.

"It's time for you to go." he muttered, after swallowing the bitter ball that had formed in his throat.

“You’re right.”

Andrés straightened himself, throwing the fake robbery sports bag over his shoulder. He wore his clothes for big occasions: shirt, vest and jacket perfectly matched. Since he was going to let himself get caught, he'd dress like the gentleman he was.

The professor felt the bulge of the gun camouflaged under his armpit when they kissed for the last time, a kiss that barely lasted a second. A kiss that could perfectly have been the last and after which he began to feel the great emptiness the loss of Andrés left in his life.

The delinquent extended a hand towards the door, turning the knob.

His expression, as neutral as ever -barely arched eyebrow, intelligent eyes examining him- didn’t reveal a single trace of emotion when he said goodbye.

"Whatever happens, thanks for everything, _prof_." he said, sneaking through the opened door. Under the door frame he gave him his last look. “I will love you all my life too.”

Andrés was taken at noon.

At half past ten, Sergio had already left the house where he'd been happy. With all his equipment cramming the black jeep, leaving behind a shell absent from life where the ghosts of two men involved in an eternal game of chess could still be seen.

Andrés was captured in a clean way, without a single injured policeman or hair out of place for the robber. His suit was still impeccable when the police file photos were taken. His gentleman's manner didn’t falter even when he was put into the dungeon.

At one o'clock, Sergio heard the news on the radio, standing in a dusty field where he was enjoying a magnificent panorama of half-built villas. And not even then he found it useful to shed a single tear.

He started the car again while humming for himself the partisan anthem.

Andrés was taken on a Saturday and released on a Tuesday, six months later.

And during all that time, the math teacher worked on autopilot, all his energies on the last strokes of the plan. Working tirelessly night and day; recruiting, detailing, planning.

When he went to bed every night -feeling like half of his soul had been ripped out- he sang the anthem until he believed to feel Andrés breathing beside him.


	19. Chapter 19

_ Bella Ciao _ didn’t only keep them alive.

The old partisan anthem didn’t only insufflate energies into them to keep them functioning, reminding them who they were and why they fought. Its verses were the only thing which made Sergio able to get out of bed, exhausted, every morning. Or which made Andrés, surrounded by an environment that disgusted him to infinity, stand firm in his role.

_ Bella Ciao _ didn’t only hold them together.

Humming the old farewell song between the partisan and his lover didn’t only extenuate their loneliness and mitigate their absence a little. Making both believe they saw, in the blackness of the cell or empty room, the shadow of the other.

No.  _ Bella Ciao _ did something much more important.

It got them to recognize each other.

After six months of absence, they would look at each other and continue seeing the person they had fallen in love with.

He hadn’t anticipated it.

And it was funny, because Sergio always -always- foresaw everything.

It’s curious that the evil genius who never missed a possibility didn’t see that coming.

_ To put a man with destructive tendencies in an environment as healthy as prison _ , he'd say to himself later.  _ Well done, professor _ .

And he cursed to himself, with a reason.

Because even children know what happens when you bring a flame to gasoline.

Andrés was released on a Tuesday afternoon in an operation planned by the professor, led by the future Oslo and Helsinki and based on information provided by a young hacker -who Sergio already called Rio-. A deserted highway exit, a quick assault, three policemen dead, one injured and Andrés de Fonollosa wearing his ironic gesture at the scruffy troop that had come to rescue him.

“It was about time, gentlemen.”

Sergio was already in his headquarters, where he wandered like a caged lion in the absence of a better occupation. When the mobile phone vibrated in his hand, he trembled on par with it. He picked up, staying silent; not only because it was agreed, but because he was unable to untie his throat.

The serious voice with a strong Serbian accent from Helsinki:

“Done, boss.”

And nothing more.

Until a few hours later, when -after two changes of car- they finally considered it safe to return to the house that for months would become the training ground and home for the entire group. They were still a few days for Sergio to finish fixing and furnishing it, so, for now, he lived there alone.

The serbs left Andrés at the door.

Sergio was waiting for him at the entrance.

The robber advanced among the careless bushes that populated the rugged front garden, casting suspicious glances around him. Frowning in the direction of the old house.

Standing still when he discovered his lover under the door frame.

The professor took a couple of steps in his direction.

He stopped.

And the unexpected happened.

They discovered that they had changed, as dogs recognize a different smell when sniffing each other.

They knew instinctively that the person in front of them was no longer the same. They perfectly read the changes operated on the other's face. And they were aware, almost at the same time, that nothing would ever be the same.

Andrés examined Sergio's irregular beard, his hair too long, his eyes a little flushed with fatigue and the dark circles which the glasses couldn’t hide. He pursed his lips disapprovingly at his wrinkled clothes. He imagined him during those six months, alone and obsessive, working from sun to sun, eating in any way, neglecting his personal hygiene. A modern hermit. Already closer to the madman than to the genius.

Sergio studied Andrés, valuing each part of his body like he pondered the different numbers that made up an exercise. There was less muscle and more bone than the last time he saw him. More angles to his face, and the tremor in the hands that was once sporadic now seemed to be permanent. A scabby scar poked down the collar of the shirt. And he vividly imagined everything he had to do to survive in there. What months of seclusion, in that iron jungle that was jail, had done to his partner's instincts. More sadistic and psychotic than ever.

“Andrés.”

“Sergio.”

In their imagination they had met thousands of times, in scenes where they advanced without doubt or fear towards each other. And it’s not that those scenes ended with the typical passionate and warm kiss from the movies, but certainly it wasn't what it ended up happening, that afternoon, in the secluded and rugged land of the old house.

What happened was a cold and brief hug, given after hesitation and not looking into the other’s eyes. Too much worry and too much fear. Exuding, one mistrust, and the other disapproval.

"Welcome home." Sergio murmured, his gaze lost in infinity.

He had just realized how much those months of absence had undermined them.

Andrés didn’t answer. But the look he landed on the dilapidated house which the professor had acquired was quite eloquent.

Never a silence hurt so much.

With a sigh, he passed by his side, entering the house.

Sergio stayed there a few more minutes, in the ragged garden. Looking around and wondering what had gone wrong.


	20. Chapter 20

Sergio likes to think it was necessary.

With Andrés practically dead, every memory of their relationship is treasured with care in his mind. It’s incredible how many details he can remember, he thinks sometimes while waiting next to the patient's bed. The amount of conversations, moments, images that come up from his memory for no reason.

There are anodyne scenes that sometimes appear behind his eyelids when he tries to fall asleep.

Andrés cooking, whistling through his teeth with the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

Andrés observing the chess board with patient and resigned air. His fingers closing onto the piece, trapping it like a prey, before sliding it to the next box.

Andrés scratching his chin while contemplating the entire length of his closet wide open. Deaf to the teasing Sergio throws at him from the bed.

And then there are those other memories.

_ Those other _ images.

Andrés passing by without looking at him. Andrés watching him cautiously and his lips pressed in a thin line.

Andrés enforcing himself against him, crushing him against the bed while his free hand went towards his belt.

They are memories that hurt, and anyone else would’ve forgotten them already.

But Sergio is so desperate that even pain has become another form of comfort.

He likes to think that those nightmarish days were completely necessary for their relationship to continue moving forward. For Andrés and him to cauterize with fire the wounds caused by loneliness.

He likes to imagine that this was his particular descent into hell; a previous step to ascend again to the heavens.

And after those days of silence, pain and anger, it was never the same.

Interestingly, it was even better.

“What have they done to you?”

He asked it bluntly after Andrés took a shower and changed his clothes. Not bothering to hide his nervousness.

He received a phlegmatic look in response.

“That's not the question you want to ask me.”

Andrés and his replies.

“Isn’t it? Then what is?”

The thief rozed the sofa, looking at him for a moment -Sergio is sure that no detail from the upholstery of the tapestry, from the tears in the corners, from the point where the foam could be seen, escaped him- before sitting with a sigh.

Then he raised his chin. Watching him with his air of superiority. Pure Andrés.

"You don't want to ask me what they’ve done to me." He paused. “What you're dying to ask, even if you don't dare, is what  _ I _ 've done.”

He was accompanied by a slight mocking grin which got a vein to start beating in the professor’s temple.

He was right.

“What have _you_ done, Andrés?”

“Do you really want to know?”

No. He didn't want to.

But he had enough strength to hide it, crossing his fingers on his lap and pretending to be calm. Answering n an ironic tone.

“Sure, tell me. Have you had a good time these months in jail, Andrés? Have you gotten into a fight? Have you killed anyone?  _ Have you fucked _ anyone?” Andrés visibly held a wince; Sergio bit a triumphant smile when he saw him falter. “I hope it was consented. Being a rapist doesn't suit you.”

The robber immediately replenished, returning the attack.

“And what have you done while I was inside,  _ prof _ ? I hope you enjoyed your freedom while I was locked in a disgusting cell and dressed in pajamas.”

“Oh, yeah, I really enjoyed touring half of Spain in a fucking caravan and showering in public bathrooms in camps.”

“At least you were free.”

“I was  _ without you _ . Tell me what freedom there is in that.”

Andrés was silent, surprised by the answer. Sergio lowered his head, mechanically looking for the cloth for cleaning his glasses in his pocket.

“Have you had such a bad time? Do you resent me so much?”

Andrés watched him while he took off his glasses and cleaned them as if his life depended on it.

“I could ask you those same two questions.”

And at that moment they stared at each other.

Aware that -for now- neither of them had enough courage to answer them.

Like a crescendo which keeps gaining intensity until reaching its highest point and then diluting, losing power until the sound is practically inaudible.

That's how it went.

They didn't talk to each other again in hours. Silence seized the house, slowly tensing up like the string of a violin. The air was getting thinner minute by minute. From any point on the house, they could perceive the aggressiveness of the other. Projecting towards them like a source of heat.

Andrés settled in his room. Sergio locked himself in his office. They briefly looked at each other when they crossed paths. They dined separately and in silence.

But -everyone knows it- every string ends up breaking if it's strained too much.

“Did you enjoy it?”

It had to be Sergio, who never had the temper or the imperturbability of Andrés. Sergio, betrayed and hurt in a thousand places, exhausted and haggard, more vulnerable than he had ever felt.

“The what?”

Sergio in the doorway of his room. Andrés stopped in the walk to his, coming from the bathroom. Directing him that look full of irony.

“Sex in jail. Did you enjoy it more than when you fucked me?”

Andrés unraveled the question not moving a millimeter. Nothing presaged what was about to happen. If anything, a slight tremor on the lip. A small snort as the air escapes through the nose.

“Motherfucker.”

And then the delinquent moved. Fast, elegant, a huge feline with two legs jumping towards its prey.

It was an overwhelming movement; Sergio felt an almost superhuman force hit him in the chest, pushing him back. He stumbled; he instinctively grabbed Andrés, who pushed him again. Making him fall on the bed.

In that second they spent looking at each other -a moment of stillness, the eye of the hurricane- he remembers thinking Andrés seemed _almost_ as hurt as he was.

The next moment, he had him on top.

He wasn't sure what he intended to provoke with his question. Maybe it was this, maybe not. But he started to panic when Andrés crushed him with his weight. A hand buried his head in the mattress. He tried to breathe.

“Andrés. Stop.”

His voice overcame the metallic jingle of the belt buckle. And for a few seconds, he thought he hadn't heard him. Or that he’d done it, but he decided to ignore it. Because his hand had appeared on his waist, and Sergio was sure he’d continue. That he would lower his pants and do it, with or without his consent.

Then, he noticed something else.

The hand which was on his waist. It was trembling. _A lot_.

He forgot all his fear in a moment, forcing the posture to turn his neck. And he discovered that Andrés hadn’t even come to unbuckle his belt. The other hand was tightened on the buckle, also trembling spasmodically, probably unable to open it.

“Andrés.”

It could’ve been the end of those tense hours. From that cold and underground war.

But then Andrés lowered his head and saw in Sergio's eyes something he wasn’t prepared to see.

“Let me go.”

He pulled away as if his lover's body burned him, as if he desperately needed to put a wall between them. And so it was. Because Andrés de Fonollosa, professional robber, eventual murderer, was used to seeing a multitude of emotions reflected in the faces that looked at him:

Fear, anger, indignation, envy, hate. In some cases, even admiration.

But not pity.

_ Never _ pity.

“You wanted to know what they did to me?” he muttered, showing his bare hands, raised. Trembling. “ _This_ is what they did to me.” He swallowed. “I will never forget it,  _ prof _ . And I will never forgive.”

He left.

And Sergio, drowned in sorrow and guilt, found himself unable to follow him.


	21. Chapter 21

Although the tension had already split the string cleanly in two, they still spent a couple of days listening to the echo of the last snap. Feeling its vibrations.

“You should've talked to me. Told me you were worse.”

Starting a conversation with a reproach was always a bad option. And Sergio knew it. But he couldn't help it.

“True. I didn’t realize. I could’ve called you from one of those booths monitored by the officials and said ‘Hey honey, it seems that I'm getting worse from that deadly disease nobody knows I have. You'll have to start the preparations for my escape earlier.’”

He wasn't in the mood to endure sarcasm.

“Fuck you.”

But a couple of hours later, Andrés locked himself in the kitchen and began his usual noisy work with the pots and pans. And although this time he didn't whistle, and the trembling of his hands betrayed him when he adjusted the amounts of ingredients, the vibrations began to fade.

“Sergio.”

The aforementioned looked up from the plan of the Royal Mint where he was writing down something. It was the first time Andrés had addressed him on his own initiative since his release.

“Yes?”

The thief stood in front of the sofa for a moment. Sergio's eyes dropped from his face to his hands. Among them, very carefully, he held a small plastic case which he recognized immediately.

“Can you help me?”

His partner didn’t need to beg; He knew Andrés wouldn’t have asked him if he’d been able to manage by himself. The professor put the plan on the table and gestured to the free seat next to him. His lover obeyed meekly, as an applied student. Depositing the box on his lap.

In silence he took out the syringe and the vial. In silence, Andrés held out his arm. Sergio grabbed his wrist firmly with one hand, while injecting the drug with the other. Barely a sigh from the robber revealed the burning caused by the medicine.

“Have you been able to medicate in jail?” the professor asked in a casual tone, putting away the equipment.

Andrés nodded as he shook his hand.

“Yes. But in recent weeks I could hardly do it.” It seemed like he was going to leave it there, but a few seconds later he added, lowering his voice. “One more month and I think I wouldn't have been able to do it.”

"Well, I hope you get better for the heist." He set the box aside, taking the plan again. “If you can't, we’ll have to teach one of the boys how to.”

Andrés didn’t answer. But his somber gesture and tight lips gave good faith of what he thought of the idea.

Given that the professor was again focused on his things, he got up to go to store the medicine.

“Prof.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

Then Sergio nodded, lowering his head again.

Andrés quietly left the room.

The next morning and as every day, Sergio saw dawn from the kitchen window.

With his cup of coffee in his hand, he watched as the first rays of sun began to flood the wide terrain surrounding the house. And under those first lights, the forms of vegetation began to emerge. Trees, bushes growing without order or performance. As he liked it: wild and free.

He was so abstracted in his moment of morning peace that he barely heard Andrés’ steps down the stairs. Entertained with his plans and visions. If he tried, he could almost see them there, in the garden. The entire team -whose photos, names and surnames were already printed in his memory- lined up in the terrace chairs he kept in the garage, waiting to receive his first orders.

"There's fresh coffee." he murmured distractedly, amid of his reveries.

So absorbed that everything else had gone to the background; including the small detail that he and Andrés were angry at each other.

But then, a contact on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

He was suddenly aware of Andrés' presence, of his body behind his. His particular smell -mixture of his expensive cologne and  _ after-shave _ \- made its way to his nose. The hand which had landed on his shoulder caressed him subtly before lowering, resting on his waist.

And a breath tickling his neck when Andrés laid his head there. Depositing a fleeting kiss, so ephemeral that he almost thought he had imagined it, on the back of his neck.

_“O partigiano, portami via, ché mi sento di morir.”_ he whispered to his ear.

But it was not that verse of the old anthem why Sergio froze, stiff fingers squeezing the cup tight. His head pointing forward. His other hand hanging beside his body, clenched into a fist.  _ No. _

It was that moisture which he began to feel against his skin. A thin and subtle film of water on contact with Andrés' freshly shaved cheeks. The trail of tears.

He knew he shouldn't turn around.

But, without saying anything, he raised his free hand to place it on the one that grabbed his waist.

Andrés stayed that way for what seemed like hours. When at last one of the two spoke, the sun was already hitting hard in the garden.

“When you have a disease like this... You can't help…” Andres's breath tickled him. Sergio closed his eyes. “In jail I was so deteriorated that I thought… I wondered what would you think when you see me leave having become a sick person. And that... I couldn't stand it.”

He ended in a broken voice.

Sergio bit his lip. He grabbed one of Andrés’ hands, bringing it to his stomach. Pressing it tightly against the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“I can’t believe you’re still coming with those by now.”

He turned his neck.

Andrés had red eyes and avoided his gaze, but he couldn’t help but kiss him deeply, grabbing his neck. The first kiss in many months, which caused the professor to feel a burst of electricity running through his body.

He kissed him until he was breathless, and after a moment the delinquent relaxed, opening his lips and allowing him to enter. His hands stayed on the professor’s back. Trembling slightly.

Sergio suddenly pulled away, grabbing his cheeks and arching his neck as if he wanted to examine him. He snorted like a bull, genuinely indignant.

"I just can’t believe it." he repeated.

And then he forgot about the cup, breakfast and the bucolic dawn to drag Andrés to the nearest room.

It became a gale. While still kissing or caressing him -or giving him that irritated look- he harassed him from every possible angle and point. His hands seemed to multiply on his lover’s body, who welcomed his enthusiasm with an initial surprise which was disappearing as he acclimated, matching his partner's passion and impatience.

So much that a frustration growl escaped him when his trembling hands were unable to unzip the professor's fly.

Sergio, far from being scared, cocked a smile.

“Eh, eh.” And because it was the first time he saw him smile in months, Andrés didn't even care that he spoke to him like to a small child. He let him remove his hands gently, giving him a wink. “Let me handle it.”

He took his clothes off while smiling, enjoying running his fingertips over his skin without even caressing him at all. Positionating his hand on his waist and then lowering his underpants not even touching him. Enervating him as only he knew how to until the robber, his face congested and his eyes out of orbit, looked at him sitting on the bed, completely naked.

“Sergio.” he murmured.

Later, it was Sergio himself who undressed. T-shirt and sleeping shorts fell without any ceremony to the floor. When he saw Andrés reaching his hand out for his underpants, not daring, he grabbed it confidently. Lending him his firmness as he guided him to the elastic. Holding his wrist while Andrés pulled down.

And then intertwining his fingers with his to allow him to touch him there. Simply mitigating his tremors while Andrés took the initiative, finally caressing that skin he had died to touch again.

The professor's groans were heavenly music to the ears of someone who had been convinced for months that he'd never caress him in that way again.

“See? Everything can be fixed.” Sergio pushed his hand away, leaning in to give him a short kiss on the lips.

Andrés didn’t answer.

He had foreseen what his lover's next move would be, and he ran his tongue over his dry lips when he saw him lean over the drawer, grab the lubricant, and prepare himself quicker than his celibacy months required.

And when the professor sat astride on his lap, he closed his eyes.

Moaning his name against his chest as he lowered himself, little by little. Without complaining, without apparent pain and without losing that smile which was driving him crazy.

Andrés was no longer capable of anything else.

Just to get carried away, subjected to Sergio's movements. In his life he’d never been mounted like that, the professor's hands resting on his shoulders, his hips rising and falling rhythmically. His head buried in his neck, drowning his moans against his skin.

No one had never done this to him, and in five minutes he was already with his eyes blank, making a terrible effort to not lose control. His hands trembled uncontrollably on his lover's lap, at least until he lowered his arms and grabbed his wrists again, keeping him that way. Balancing on him while he rode him.

He came thinking that in his life he’d never felt anything like it.

Sergio finished prostrate. Stretching lazily, with Andrés hugging him. His glasses at his side, on the pillow, and a satisfied sigh knowing that their particular ordeal had already been left behind.

Then he felt, clearly, a tear fall down on the sensitive skin of his back.

He extended an arm blindly. His hand found the other’s head and caressed, clumsily but with affection, his short and sweaty hair.

_“E le genti che passeranno, mi diranno ‘Che bel fior’.”_ he murmured.

Andrés’ response was quick.

_ “E questo è il fiore del Partigiano, morto per la libertà.” _

His voice broke in the middle of the verse. And for the next few minutes Sergio stayed still, absently stroking his hair while he felt him cry against his body.


	22. Chapter 22

It was the honeymoon they never had.

“Man, you’re so corny.” Andrés muttered under his breath.

“Don't you like me being romantic?”

“There is a fine and subtle line between romanticism and the tacky cursilery which is much more common these days.” He crossed his arms, looking at him from one of the battered armchairs that came with the house. “And it happens that you constantly cross it.”

Sergio was smiling.

“Oh, really? And what should I do to be a real romantic, according to you?”

Andrés looked around the abandoned chess board, where he'd bitten the dust two consecutive times before the professor got tired of beating him and switched to more mundane entertainments. He caressed the black queen's head with longing, the last of his pieces to be phagocytized.

"A gentleman doesn’t need to be proclaiming what he feels.” he began didactically. “A gentleman demonstrates it.”

“And how does he demonstrate it?”

The thief sighed deeply. It was necessary to give him the merit of keeping his composure intact considering he had Sergio practically on top of him for a while now.

“Behaving like a man.”

“That expression is very outdated, and probably sexist.”

“I’m an old-fashioned person, I don't deny it.”

“You know?” Not knowing how, Sergio had slipped to straddle him. Andrés swallowed. A drop of sweat was forming on his forehead. “That’s usually the number one excuse to justify being a troglodyte.”

In an attempt to disguise that his studied composure began to crumble, the robber raised his chin and also both eyebrows.

“I’m not a…”

Sergio's kiss drowned the rest of the sentence.

Glad to have an escape from the ridiculous conversation, Andrés threw himself into the love fray, responding to his kisses with passion and circling his waist with his arm to bring him closer to his body. The trembling of his hands remained perennial, although its intensity had been greatly reduced in recent days.

Sergio had become accustomed to taking care of buttons and zippers, so his lover only had to pull.

He did that morning. Opening his shirt to allow Andrés to bury his face in his bare chest, kissing and licking him. Ripping off of him some sighs, which resulted in a groan of surprise when, unexpectedly, he pushed him to fall beside him on the couch.

Face up, Sergio saw Andrés face emerge from above his knees. Like a hungry predator.

“Do you want to know how a gentleman behaves?” He threw the question, oulining a maniacal smile. “I'm gonna show you.”

The professor gasped silently, watching the tables turn and it was Andrés who managed to get on top of him.

"A gentleman,  _ prof _ ," He leaned over him, speaking into his ear. “always respects his partner. And he makes them feel the most special person in the world.”

Of course, Sergio was close to feeling that way when Andrés again drew a line of kisses and licks from his neck to his chest.

“A gentleman always worries about his partner’s pleasure before his.” His voice came to him from some indeterminate point above his waist. “And you know what else,  _ prof _ ?”

“No.”

“If for any reason, a gentleman cannot use his hands, he shouldn't mind replacing them with his mouth.”

Sergio was paralyzed for fraction of a second.

Unable to process what he’d heard.

Then, Andrés pulled the briefs down and put it in his mouth in a single movement. And everything else stopped mattering.

If he tries to remember, his memories of those days are reduced to being in bed with Andrés, perfecting the last details of the plan, giving the last touches to the house and more bed with Andrés.

“Berlin?”

“Berlin.”

Andrés smiled from ear to ear.

“One of the first cities where the partisan anthem became known.”

Sergio smiled back, satisfied to see he'd caught the reference.

"It was one of the reasons." he explained, stretching.

They were in bed, of course.

“One? What’s the other?”

Andrés - _ Berlin _ \- absently kissed his shoulder, which was a signal to warn him that the party was not even remotely close to ending. One of his hands stood firm on his waist. The other shook only occasionally, like a reflex.

“Well, the reason is... I don't know, it reminded me of you.”

“Berlin reminds you of me?”

“You're cold, methodical, some would say gray.”

“Berlin is not a gray city.”

"You neither." He turned his neck to kiss him back. “That’s the intention, Andrés. To most people, the name will seem very appropriate. Only you and I will know why you really carry it.”

Andrés shook his head.

“Do you ever stop, you know, cerebrating?”

“Do I need to answer?”

“I guess not.”

Andrés moved closer, pushing him gently until he rolled him face down. Sign that the truce was over. Sergio smiled to himself, although the smile cleared when his lover whispered again near his ear.

“Call me that.”

“What?”

“Call me Berlin.”

Sergio was speechless.

“Andrés, you’re sick.”

_ “Berlin.” _

“Look, I can't believe someone like you gets turned on by being called Berlin while…” A rotund caress between his legs stopped him dry, making him barely contain a groan. “Fuck, Andrés!”

Andrés’ hand suddenly disappeared. Sergio clenched his teeth, growling at the lack of contact. When he turned his neck to give him a furious look, he met his arched eyebrow and his serious expression.

“Looks like you didn't understand the rules of the game,  _ prof _ .”

Sergio opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again instantly. As an expert chess player, he was able to recognize when a play didn’t lead anywhere. When there was no possible exit for any of his pieces. His whole body impelled him to accept the impending checkmate.

So he bit his lower lip, and looked up.

“Berlin…”

Andrés smiled as his hand returned to the starting point.

As if it wanted to put its grain of sand in those days of eternal idyll, the disease also decided to give them a truce.

“It's been days since my hands aren’t shaking.”

Andrés said it while eating breakfast, stirring his cup of coffee. Like the one who warns of the rain or announces that it's time to take the car to the repair shop. And Sergio, who was in his usual place, standing in front of the window, barely nodded.

_ Three days _ , he thought.  _ To be exact. _

“I've noticed.”

Andrés’ eyes remained fixed on his back as he continued to spin the spoon. The professor had to bite his tongue to not to be tempted to ask him to stop. He patiently endured the clink of metal against pottery while, out there, that landscape he loved so much emerged from the shadows to greet him.

“I was afraid of not being able to hold a gun.” Andrés stopped getting the coffee lightheaded at last, raising the cup. Admiring the firmness of his own hands. “I was afraid to let you down.”

"You're not going to let me down, Andrés." he replied, not giving him the choice to keep talking. “You’re my captain and you will not let me down.”

The thief took a sip of his coffee. Sergio considered the option of turning around and sitting in front of him, but instinct told him to hold on a little longer.

Indeed, the sun barely glimpsed by the thick branches when he heard the cold voice of his lover again.

“I have to be honest with you. I'm not sure how I'm going to hold on in there.”

“You'll have your medicines.”

“I don't mean just the disease.”

Sergio had already imagined it.

He drew a deep breath before finally turning to face him. He was handling the empty cup in his hands, but his voice was firm when he answered.

“You’ll not do anything that’s not in the plan.”

“I do not know if…”

“I do know. You're not going to kill anyone, Andrés.” He tilted his head, analyzing his posture. “You are going to limit yourself to being scary, as we’ve spoken many times, and nothing more. You will stick to your role, and you will do it because you are my captain, and if my captain fails me, everything we’ve planned for years will go to shit. We agree?”

Andrés held the reprimand with his chin raised and his face petrous.

“Sometimes, prof…” he murmured, raising his cup again “sometimes it'd be better if you were harder on me.”

Sergio snorted, turning his back so he could approach the sink to leave his cup.

“Don't fuck with me, Andrés, do the favor. I'm your lover, not the son of a bitch of your father. Don't fuck with me”

Andres didn’t answer. He just drank his coffee in silence.

Sergio let him be.

Just as he studied obsessively maps and maps, throughout his years of coexistence he’d developed a mental scheme of Andrés' personality. He had come to know quite well -better than anyone- the tortured and contradictory personality of his partner.

He was a child who grew up being trained to steal, hate and kill. He’s now an adult who has long ago forged his own character, who turned away from his cruel paternal teachings to forge his own path.

As a teenager, he understood killing would never be his thing.

But sometimes Andrés wakes up at night and feels that the shadows around him are darker than ever. In the silence of dawn he hears the echo of his father's screams, notices the weight of a gun in his hand. Smells the blood.

And he wonders how far he’ll be able to get.

Sergio knows it well. Because on those occasions he usually wakes up shortly after with the tremors and gasps of his lover in a panic attack.

Then he hugs him tight, imprisoning him with his arms, until Andrés remembers he’s still human.


	23. Chapter 23

He wakes up all of a sudden, with that typical shock of someone who has succumbed to sleep without aknowledging it. Before his eyes he only distinguishes color spots, and it still takes a couple more seconds for him to wake up completely and realize he has his half-dropped glasses on his chin.

Only when he repositions them he realizes what has awakened him. A square of light streams at his feet, coming from the corridor, while the swinging door slowly returns to its original place.

He raises head.

And he could say that under the door frame awaits the last person he'd expected to see there. He would say it if the reality wasn’t that he isn’t waiting for _anybody_.

“Hello, professor.” she greets him, with a small and sinuous smile.

Tokyo.

“What are you doing here?” he gets to sputter, his voice still sleepy, his mouth doughy.

In response, the young woman looks over his shoulder. Towards the bed. She doesn’t seem impressed by the sight of Andrés’ body -of the person she knew as the cold and calculating Berlin- surrounded by machines and tubes of various kinds.

"I came to say goodbye." she replies vaguely, stepping into the room. Her voice acquires a bit of cruelty by adding. “After all, we shared many moments together.”

Sergio gets up.

He stands between her and the bed carried by the purest instinct of protection. Not knowing why he does it, but rising, firm. Aware that the image he projects is ridiculous; a haggard and disheveled guy, the kind of person who without his glasses is as harmless as a newborn, facing someone who probably carries no less than three weapons.

But there he is.

On one side, a murderer; on the other, a harmless professor.

Tokyo seems to read his thoughts. Smiling.

“Calm down, professor.” She arches her eyebrows. “I'd never hurt him. I know…” She tilts her head. “I know what he means to you.”

The last sentence fully impacts his brain. But even so, he stands firm.

Standing; _always_ standing

“How did you find us?”

Tokyo rolls her eyes. He just asked the most absurd question in the world, evidently. One that she’ll only forgive because of his obvious tired face and wrinkled clothes which indicate many days and _many_ nights at the clinic.

“Aníbal, obviously.” The explanation is not necessary, but she still offers it, kindly. “Well, Rio. It took a little longer, because of the fake names and stuff. But he’s a true genius. You know that better than me.”

Sergio nods. Of course. He was always and will be proud of his team. It took _years_ to select them, but he certainly made the right decision in each case.

“And why?”

“I’ve already told you. I thought it was very rude to leave without saying goodbye.”

Tokyo seems to end the conversation and take a side step, passing him cleanly.

The professor is paralyzed for a moment. His brain works at full speed, assessing whether it’s worth cutting her path again. If he should harden his attitude and ask her, by hook or by crook, to leave.

Immediately, he decides not.

Andrés is almost dead. And he has long since ceased to fear the immense abyss behind the barrel of a gun.

So he just spins on his heels. Watching her.

She has changed her hairstyle, hair color, wears glasses, hairpieces, and all those things which people do to camouflage their identity. She obviously carries a fake ID, and probably have another half a dozen counterfeit cards stored somewhere -like Sergio himself-. But before his eyes she will always be the same young woman she catched before she wandered straight into a deadly trap. The aggressive and vulnerable girl who’s life, basically, he saved.

The same one who leans on Andrés. Staring at him long before extending a hand and touching one of his sunken cheek with a delicacy which leaves the professor overwhelmed.

“Since when do you know?”

It’s the only thing he can ask.

Tokyo gives him a fleeting sparkling look.

“Since the night before the heist.” Her fingers stop on Andrés’ damaged skin. Sergio closes his eyes, anticipating what she’s going to say. “I approached your room because I needed to discuss something with you. I heard you fuck. I'm not going to say I wasn't surprised... but don't worry, professor. I never commented it with anyone.”

“I thought you were all out.” he murmurs.

“I came back soon. I argued with Rio, you know.” she says nonchalantly, continuing to analyze Andrés. “It's hard to believe it's him, huh? The biggest son of a bitch I've ever met in my life, and here he is. Helpless. Dying”

Sergio takes a step towards the bed.

“He’s not helpless. He has me.”

Tokyo straightens her back, raising her head. Her analytical eyes pass from Andrés’ face to his.

“You know? I've spent months wondering how my guardian angel was able to fall in love with a person like Berlin.”

Sergio can't help smiling.

Tokyo ignores that he’s spent _years_ asking himself that same thing.


	24. Chapter 24

“Remember that, theoretically, we hardly know each other.”

Andrés nodded diligently, not hiding a smile.

“Clear.”

“And we can't call each other by our names in front of the rest.”

“Of course. I'll call you professor and you'll call me Berlin.” He narrowed his eyes, enjoying the situation. “I only have one doubt,  _ prof _ .”

Sergio crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow, inviting him to ask. Collecting all his willpower to stay serious and immune to his partner's mischievous smile.

“What are we going to do to not get horny all the time?”

The professor sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Look, man. Fuck off.”

The best thing would’ve been to leave it there, but months later Sergio will smile when he remembers how he allowed Andrés to corner him in a hallway and untidy his clothes when in only half a damn hour the first of the team members would arrive at their new home.

And his smile will be erased when he realizes that those were, perhaps, Sergio and Andrés' last kisses.

Because, from that afternoon, and forever, they became Berlin and the professor.

Downed by memories, Sergio's eyes fall from Tokyo's face to Andrés’. And he contemplates for a few seconds those well-known features, that skin worn out by the disease; He stares at his forehead and imagines his brain, that privileged mind which competed with his own, atrophying itself until total shutdown.

Sometimes he’d thought that seeing him die will not hurt as much as seeing him that way. Reduced to a bed, hooked to a respirator. Cloistered within himself.

Suddenly he realizes Tokyo is still there. And waiting for an answer.

“Love doesn’t understand reasons.”

Tokyo snorts through her nose at his predefined answer, from cheap songs and teenager girl agenda.

“Of course not.”

If Sergio had any hope that her visit would be quick, he was disappointed to see her look around the room until she found a chair. She brings it closer, sitting with a sure air while the professor resigns to return to his comfortable little sofa.

“What will you do when he dies?”

In spite of everything, he likes that she doesn’t use euphemisms. It’s a sign that at least she still respects him.

“I don't know.” he lies, but not much. He has a vague idea, a short-term plan, but everything that comes next is a mystery. “Disappear for a time, that's for sure.”

“Are you going to plan heist again?”

"No." He shakes his head, looking at the window for a second. “I neither need it nor am I attracted to the idea.”

Tokyo crosses her legs and leaves her hands on one of her knees. Biting her lower lip slightly.

“I thought you lived for it.”

Sergio outlines a small sad smile. Yes, that's what everyone thinks. That he needs to live in a perennial plan, always devising, always designing the most imaginative ways to achieve his goal. That he needs the adrenaline from the robbery as drug addicts seek their dose.

That he’s one of them.

But he’s  _ not _ .

“No.” And before her surprised look, he reveals what may be one of the secrets of his life. “I only did it for him.”

Tokyo snorts with indignation, offended and incredulous, as if he had just questioned one of the dogmas which govern her life. She evaluates him with hard eyes, probably wondering if it’s the tired and mourning man who speaks through the mouth of his beloved professor.

“Are you serious?”

Sergio laughs softly. Between teeth.

“I was a normal guy until I met him. It was because of him that I started this... It started with him and it will end with him. I’ve always had that very clear.”

Tokyo registers his words silently, but not hiding her total dismay. And in her eyes a worried spark appears that wasn't there seconds before, when it was only Berlin who was dying on a hospital bed. When her admired guardian angel wasn't falling apart in front of her.

And, somehow, Sergio knows what’s going through her head. What she’s deciding whether to him tell or not.

The secret of a dying man, which could destroy the person who’s watching over him.

Being honest with him, or taking the risk of harming him. That’s the question.

“Professor.”

When he hears her cautious tone, Sergio knows which side has won.

“Are you sure you know everything Berlin did inside the Factory?”

She’s perplexed when Sergio laughs again. And her surprise is increasing when the professor, taking off his glasses to clean them, moves his head while still smiling.

“Berlin told me everything.”

It’s not a way of speaking, one of those professions of faith that are launched into the air to extend the inevitable clash with reality for a moment. No; what Sergio is saying is an irrefutable, absolute truth, like a temple. Because Berlin -the maniac, egotist, narcissistic and obsessive Berlin- really told him  _ everything _ .

Tokyo frowned.

“Including about the hostage he fucked, professor?” she asks, already with more ironically than carefully.

And although she’s already lost the ability to be surprised, she’s still amazed that the smile stays stuck to Sergio's face when he answers.

“Including that, Tokyo.”


	25. Chapter 25

It was automatic. A mental change.

For one last moment, they were Sergio and Andrés. Lovers for years, buddies in good and evil.

And the next second they had become the professor and Berlin. The ideologist and the executor. Boss and subordinate. A general and his captain.

The two were so thorough and perfectionist, they had studied their role so well that Sergio only realized what was going on a couple of days after the rest of the thieves entered the house. When he realized that, in all that time, him and Andrés hadn’t spoken alone once.

They mimetically adopted the role for which they had been preparing for months. Sergio, aware he should impose his will on people much more dangerous than him, remained calculatedly distant, enigmatic, revealing only excerpts of his great plan to keep them in suspense. Taking advantage of the minimum occasion to display his intellectual superiority.

Andrés, forced to embody the despot who should inspire fear -not only in the hostages but in his own partners- displayed his coldest and most arrogant attitude, gave free rein to his ironic tongue and didn’t lose a second in proving he was a psychopath which one had to be very careful with.

And sometimes they found themselves watching each other, one from the dais and the other from the desk of the symbolic classroom they had ridden between the two. The professor explaining the details of his plan, Berlin looking at him skeptically. Always on the verge of questioning his authority. Always on the edge of the riot.

Already at that time, more than one member of the team was surprised that the professor had rang a guy who seemed more than eager to blow his brains out.

And the truth is that they didn’t lack reason. Because, at that moment, the confrontation was real. Berlin questioned him like Andrés never did; the professor despised him for his sadism in a way that would’ve horrified Sergio.

Only sporadically they found a moment to return to their respective skins.

_“Stamattina mi sono alzato…”_

Berlin lifted his head like a spring, sharply drawn out of his reading. They were in the front garden -which Sergio was still keeping wild and free- enjoying some free hours. No one paid the slightest attention to the professor when he brought a radio and played some music.

No one except Berlin.

The first verses of the anthem began to take over the ambient, and some began to hum the chorus distractedly, another to move their head at its pace, but no one identified or asked about the song. No one but Berlin, who stared at him with a raised chin for several seconds, while the professor stared back, not blinking an eye.

They managed to understand each other.

A few minutes later, Andrés sneaked into the professor’s room and, after a moment of interrogation with their eyes, they threw themselves into each other's arms.

There was kissing and papers crumbled. The cold Berlin and the brave professor disappeared, and Sergio found himself groaning into Andrés’ mouth, and Andrés discovered his hands trembling again, but now of pure excitement. And they wondered how, _for God's sake, how_ , they had been able to endure it up to that point.

"We can't take a chance, Andrés." Sergio murmured, making an enormous effort to separate.

Andrés looked at him in frustration. But he nodded.

“I'm going to let them have a night out.” continued the professor, recomposing his clothes. “I hope everyone decides to go out.”

“What if someone stays?” he asked in a somber tone.

Sergio tilted a smile.

“We’ll make little noise.”

That night -a locked door, two more people in the house, Andrés officially outside- they made love with a new despair, aware that from that moment and on they had to space their meetings more than ever. Perched on his back, noticing Andrés panting against the pillow, Sergio found a moment to tell him.

“Don't forget who you are, Andrés. Don’t forget who I am.”

"We have to do it." he growled in response.

_“We don’t.”_

And at that moment, Andrés was satisfied.

They used the partisan anthem as their watchword, as a common language, as a meeting place. Normally it was Sergio, but other times it was Andrés. On calm days, if there was no danger of being found, -or if one of the two was _very much_ in need- one began to hum it. And automatically, they knew where and how to meet.

“Do you remember what I told you one time? That you and I will not be together at the time of the robbery?”

“Nonsense, like so many other things you say.”

Sergio still grabbing his shoulders, with a silly smile as a result of orgasm. Andrés resting his chin on his neck, his back against the headboard, still inside him. He swallowed.

“No. I was right.” He waved to get Sergio to look at him, and to do it seriously, without a trace of that idiot in love who was looking at him at that moment. “We have to leave it before. We can't be together when that time comes.”

“I don’t understand why.”

Andrés’ response came in a cavernous voice.

“Because it will put the plan at risk. Because it will end up killing us.”

Sergio snorted, muttered an ‘exaggerated’ and silenced his protests with kisses. And Andrés, who wasn’t made of stone, let him win.

For that time.

But there came a day when Sergio lost the game.

In which the chess master, the tactics genius, could do nothing but resign himself while contemplating his key piece trapped in an impregnable checkmate.

The eve of the heist.

Sergio had managed to _suggest_ to the rest of the band that they could spend their last night free outside the house. And for the first time since the old days, he and Andrés were able to dine alone.

It was that night when he made another one of those promises he could never keep.

And again the anthem brought them together.

Listening to Andrés' voice singing the song about the partisan who’s about to die, Sergio's throat was knotted. And although he didn’t allow himself to fall into self-pity, he couldn’t help mentally calculating how many months they had left together. How many hours were left by his side.

How many times he would have him in his arms again.

When Andrés got up, he imitated him, joining the song again. With a hoarse voice, wet eyes and a broken heart, but more willing to resist than ever.

Standing -always standing- they sang for the last time in a while.

And after that hug, Andrés gently removed the cup from his hands, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered to his ear:

“Let's go up.”

It was a liberation to be able to advance stumbling, kissing, undressing and caressing along the way. Alone again, not worrying about being discreet or making noise. Andrés pushed him against the door of the room before opening it, practically lifting him in suspense. They rozed. They rubbed against each other.

And Sergio, the strategist, the chess champion, knew that somehow that would be their last night. Even if Andrés left the robbery alive, it would probably be the last time he would enjoy it that way. In full faculties, healthy, strong. Free and wild like the trees that surrounded the house.

For the first and last time in his life, he took off his glasses and handed them blindly.

Andrés stood still.

“What?”

“Take them, put them somewhere.”

Without glasses, Sergio was almost completely blind; Andrés didn’t miss that detail. He was in charge of reaching them in the morning, or taking them off if he fell asleep with them. He knew where his spare pair was in case of an accident. He had seen him groping with his eyes fixed on the void if he lost them momentarily. He knew how exposed and lost he was without them.

“But…”

"Come on." he urged, blinking at the huge blur that filled his field of vision. “Tonight I just want to feel you, Andrés.”

Andrés nodded, took the glasses from his hands and placed them on the nightstand.

Then he surrounded him with his arms. A little overwhelmed to see how he surrendered -blindly- to him. Relying on him to the fullest, as he hadn’t ever done with anyone and how he wouldn’t ever do again. Letting Andrés’ touch be his only connection to the world.

That made everything a little harder.

That, and that they gave in to each other like never before. And that Sergio didn’t stop touching him, grabbing his cheeks, feeling him, compensating with his hands the lost sense. And that Andrés cursed and blessed at the same time the moment he decided to rob that jewelry store. Take the young bearded man who looked at him with a scared face to the vault.

Indeed, for him it was his last night. At least, his last night of fullness before the disease began to accelerate muscle deterioration until he became little more than a puppet.

It was the last time he could take the initiative. That he could knock Sergio face-up, lift his legs up, fuck him longly, using all his self-control and mental discipline to try to last as long as possible. In order to enjoy the image of Sergio undone, covered in sweat, groaning nonstop with blind eyes closed. And touching him. Touching him constantly.

It was the last time, and worst of all, Andrés knew it too.

He kissed him at the end, showing a love he’d never felt for anyone.

“Thank you for everything we've lived together, Sergio. I love you. I will always love you.”

Sergio huffed in the dark. Knowing what was coming next.

"But I think we should leave it here." He stroked his back as he spoke, raising his hand to tangle it in the professor’s wet hair. “Thus our story will have a happy ending.”

“I don't want happy endings. I want you.”

Andrés sighed, exasperated. Trying to hide that, at that moment, his whole body -including his heart- was trembling.

“I'm going to have to do difficult things inside the Factory. And you're going to have to do equally complicated things outside.” He kissed him on the forehead. “I’m a gentleman and cheating is a very ugly thing. So it’s better to end our relationship here and now."

_Checkmate._

Sergio swallowed, still blindly. And blindly he saw Andrés draw a smile that was half malicious and half angry. The maddening smile of a soldier who faces an enemy he cannot defeat; but, even so, he’s proud to fall fighting until the end.

Standing.

“Our relationship will never end, Andrés. But if you want to pretend, go ahead.”

“You know it's very likely that I…”

“Look, if you're going to repeat the same as always, shut your fucking mouth.”

Andrés obeyed at face value. Keeping silent for whole minutes. Until he thought Sergio had fallen asleep.

“Sometimes I think it’d be better if I hadn't been in that jewelry store that day.”

He heard him sigh.

“Do you really think so?” he asked, after a few seconds.

Sergio let out a dry laugh.

"No." he felt his smile. “But the next time you tell me that I have to rebuild my life, I'll tell you that it is you who should've thought twice before hitting on me knowing that you were dying. Idiot.”

Now it was Andrés who was touched and sunk.

They fell asleep shortly after. Their last night together in a long, long time.


	26. Chapter 26

“He called to tell me.” When seeing Tokyo's surprised gesture, he adds. “During all that time, Andrés and I had a secret line, just for the two of us.”

“Did he call you to tell you that he was going to fuck a hostage?”

Sergio makes a face. Said like that, it sounds like they're talking about the biggest psychopath. And although he won’t defend Andrés' work ethic at this point, he won’t deny there was a compelling reason to do what he did.

“The viability of my plan rested on several pillars. If one of them fell apart, the entire structure we’d designed would.” His instinct as a professor emerges as he removes his glasses, absently wiping them with his tissue. “One of these pillars was for Andrés... well, Berlin, be able to keep order in there. For this, the hostages had to fear him, and you had to respect him.”

Tokyo remains silent, keeping to herself her opinion on Berlin's methods to impose that _respect_ which the professor was talking about. His threats, his constraints, and his eagerness to bring out the gun whenever an occasion presented itself.

She even ignores that Sergio, in fact, is aware of each and every one of his performances.

“Another one of the fundamental points was that for me to get in contact with the police. Preferably, with the person in charge of the case.”

“Contact?” Not moving, Tokyo arches an eyebrow.

Sergio puts on his glasses. And smiles.

“It's what you're thinking. The objective was to establish a relationship of trust. I thought it’d be enough to be her friend, but Berlin was much more practical than me.”

“You had to take her to bed.”

“If possible, of course. Or so he said.” He crosses his arms. “I had my doubts, of course. Not only for having to resort to sex to gain the trust of another person, but because, for me, it was still an infidelity.”

Tokyo is smart, almost as much as he is. A frown, a quick look at the lifeless robber, and her brain finishes connecting the clues provided by the professor.

“Did Berlin fuck someone just so you wouldn't have regrets about sleeping with the inspector?”

Sergio follows the direction of her gaze. Andrés’ chest rises and falls, slow, at the regular pace set by the artificial respirator. Tokyo is right; it’s hard to imagine that he’s the same person, it’s difficult to compare that image with that of Andrés de Fonollosa. It’s difficult to place him in that place, coercing a hostage to open her legs before him.

It’s hard to think that the voice he heard that day after the phone rang came out of that same intubated throat.

“What do you want?”

“For you to find out from me rather than from someone else.”

Sergio had been scribbling notes on his desk before picking up the phone. His hand stood still on the paper. He frowned to the emptiness.

“What have you done, Berlin?”

If someone had asked him, he would’ve said that he didn’t only called him that for fear of someone possibly listening -although he was completely sure that their line of communication was impregnable-. But it wasn’t true. He called him that because who waited on the other side of the line was more Berlin than Andrés; Berlin, with his cold voice, his cruelty and his total absence of scruples.

"Well, you know, a man has his needs." In the hovel that served as a den, Sergio raised his head, straightening in his chair. “I already told you that sooner or later I’d have to let off the steam with someone.”

“Have you raped a hostage?” he snapped, horrified.

The pen fell to the floor.

And in that moment he realized. He was willing to forgive him for stealing, threatening and killing. But never, ever, would he have been able to forgive him for that.

"A hostage, yes, a pretty young _woman_." Berlin said before adding, in a tone which reminded him of the good old Andrés. “And I haven't raped anyone. Rape is a very ugly word, professor. She came on to me. She asked for us to reach an agreement, and I have accepted. It’s been completely consented, although I don't think she enjoyed it very much.”

Sergio will always be ashamed to recognize that, at that moment, all he felt was relief. He held on to Berlin's words like a burning clove, while a voice in his head repeated that, at least, it’d been with a woman. For some reason, it would've been much worse if it'd been with another man.

"I think it's perfect." he replied, trying to pretend coldness. “Do you have anything else to inform me or can I continue working?”

But the worst was to notice Berlin smiling on the other end of the line. Feeling in his flesh the degree of sadism which

“You don't want to know how it went?”

“I don't have the slightest interest in…”

"On the desk, professor." And the professor’s breath was cut so abruptly that even Berlin heard it. “Her face down on the desk, me behind. How you know I like doing it.”

_“Motherfucker.”_

He’d never had an insult come out from so deep inside him. He'd never thought that Andrés would be able to use details of their intimate life -of everything they’d shared- to turn them against him. Livid, his hand holding the phone began to shake.

Berlin laughed softly.

“Did you think I wasn't being serious? Everything I've been telling you all this time has been serious, professor, _everything_.” Sergio lowered his head, resting it on his free hand. Berlin's voice hardened. “Neither this is a game nor you and I are the fucking lovers of Teruel. I hope you’ve already convinced yourself.”

Sergio didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He heard Berlin snort and, not knowing why, he gripped the edge of the table. Seeing the blow come.

“You know? She screamed more than you did. She was wetter than you were. She begged me to fuck her again and again and she called me _Berlin_ screaming, and you know that I…”

He didn’t hang up the phone; he threw it violently against the wall.

Paralyzed, he saw it crashing and sliding down the wall in three distinct pieces, in a hemorrhage of cables and electronic components.

"That day I would’ve killed him." he confesses to Tokyo, wringing his hands while observing Andrés. “I would’ve asked any of you to kill him.”

“I would’ve done it. Gladly.”

Her quick response brings out of him a bitter smile.

“He hurt me like he never did, but... He was right. In its twisted form, his method worked. The next time I met up with the inspector, I was pissed off enough to sleep with her. And thanks to that, everything went ahead.”

Tokyo is silent for a few seconds. The rhythmic beep of Andrés' vital signs is the perfect counterpoint to her mutism.

“There’s one thing that was never clear to me…” She looks up. Sergio nods, encouraging her to ask. “What happened to the inspector?”

The professor unravels the question without blinking. And during the seconds he takes to give her the answer, it seems to Tokyo that his face darkens in a special way. That his friendly and -why not say it- attractive features disappear, glimpsing a hidden side that gives her a chill.

“She died.”

“Died?”

“We killed her.” he confirms.

Despite the fact that she herself carries blood crimes behind her, it’s as if a jug of cold water descended the back of her neck. And she understands that the man in front of her, her guardian angel, has also become what she never thought he’d be: a murderer.

“You should’ve never met him.”

Sergio smiles again, but this time the smile seems sinister.

“Probably.”

Something urges for Tokyo to get up. Something tells her that she shouldn’t spend another second in that room. It’s not a physical fear -she doesn’t fear the professor; _not yet_ , at least- but she fears the thick darkness which emanates from the two men, both the one who is about to die and the one who isn’t. She is terrified when seeing how the person she admires so much undresses, layer by layer, in front of her eyes.

She wants to keep that image of the professor for herself: the intelligent, kind and peaceful guy who aspired to orchestrate the biggest heist in history without spilling a drop of blood.

She wants to remember him eternally that way: with those glasses that give him a clueless and intellectual air, the wrinkled shirt, the kind smile on his attractive face.

She wants to disappear from his life forever.

But not even her fear justifies leaving without saying goodbye, so she takes a moment to lean over Berlin’s bed. Squeezing one of his lifeless hands.

"Rest in peace, Berlin." She gets up, looking at her idol in the eyes. Her guardian angel. Her savior. “Goodbye, professor.”

And he smiles, knowing he won't see her again.

He always knew that, at the end of the story, the old partisan died alone.

“Goodbye, Tokyo.”


	27. Chapter 27

Andrés also found himself alone at the end of the robbery.

“I’ll isolate you. I’ll make them distrust you. Fear you. You’ll have to be very strong to endure it.”

“Please, _prof_. I was never precisely the popular kid in high school.”

His smirk didn’t manage fool Sergio while he gave the final touches to his plans, but it did manage to convince the rest of the group in those last days of closure within the Factory. Those days when he was more alone and isolated than ever.

“Why do they have to find my identity?” Andrés had asked curiously.

“Because they have to believe you capable of doing what you’ll threaten to do.” The professor answered enigmatically.

Sergio had promised him a heist at the height of his career, a final strike, a tribute. And he took it so seriously, that the success of the whole robbery layed in Andrés' ability to perform the final act.

He saved the last movement for him. The checkmate

The professor had studied to the millimeter the way in which Berlin would draw away from the rest of the robbers. He’d planned how he’d cut every thread of camaraderie that joined them while, outside of the Factory, his identity and his terminal illness expanded to public awareness.

"You’ll have to resist." he said often, when they talked about his role.

Andrés answered him with a bravado, as if it were something done.

But, as a chess player, Sergio knew where he was sending him. Risking his most valuable piece, recklessly introducing it into the enemy's squares, trusting it to reach the rival king before it destroyed itself.

In those last days, he spent almost as much time talking on the phone with him as hovering around the inspector.

“How are you?”

“Good.”

Berlin never collapsed -he couldn't afford it- but Sergio knew he was far from feeling _well_.

Isolated, taken as crazy and feared for his use of violence, Berlin spent those last days practically locked in Arturo's office. Sleeping just a couple of hours because he feared his own teammates’ bullets. With red eyes and deep and cerulean eye bags.

He tried to keep the subject of his illness hidden.

“Are you still medicating?” The silence that followed made him suspicious. “Berlin, are you still injecting the medication?”

He heard Andrés take a breath of air.

“I can't anymore, professor.”

Sergio closed his eyes. He knew he couldn't ask any of the others to do it.

“There's only a few days left.”

“I know.”

“Resist. Just a few days.” He swallowed. “You have to come back. You have to let me hold you one more time.”

And he knew that Andrés was in a really bad state when he didn't even ironize or reprimand him for his pretentiousness. Limited to emit a murmur.

“Resist.” he asked one last time, before hanging up.

And Andrés resisted.

They knew he only had a few months left to live. They had dictated that he was a narcissist willing to do anything. They insinuated that he was a psychopath. They said that, in the last hours at the National Coinage and Stamp Factory, he’d gone completely crazy.

That's why no one thought he was bluffing when he appeared wearing a belt charged with explosives.

“Follow my instructions and nobody will get hurt. Make the mistake of deceiving me and…” He pointed at the detonator he held in his trembling hands. _“Boom.”_

The video was broadcasted to the press, on all televisions and web portals. But Sergio saw it on the inspector's own laptop.

"For God's sake, that guy can barely hold the detonator." He looked at her in horror. “If you don't stop him soon, he’ll cause a tragedy.”

It wasn’t hard for him to pretend. He was truly horrified. He had barely been able to see Andrés in person in all that time, and he was dismayed to see how far his physical deterioration had come.

From his listening device, he witnessed the internal discussions of the police.

“He has not explicitly threatened to take anyone with him.”

“God, obviously he will!”

“Yes, but he hasn’t made it clear. To public opinion…”

“Fuck public opinion! We can't give in to their demands!”

“If we don't do it and he takes someone with him…”

“He will.”

“They'll blame it on us.”

“Among the hostages there are important people, let's not forget that.”

“If at least they hadn’t spread the video…”

“He’s not stupid. He knows what he’s doing, the motherfucker.”

Andrés knew what was being done, because Sergio had told him so. And while the police argued, the professor used several fake and non-traceable social media profiles to further move the debate.

Let the robbers run away with all the money or risk a possible massacre?

The answer was more than clear. Especially when, at the end of that afternoon, another video began to spread, this time directly through the networks.

Sergio preferred to watch it alone, on his mobile phone. Because he wasn't sure how he would react when he saw Andrés -that Andrés turned into a walking corpse- looking at the camera, with _Bella Ciao_ playing in the background, stating with conviction the speech he’d written for him.

“Maybe by now you’re tired of seeing my face and my name out there. You may have even believed everything they’ve been telling you about me, that they think I’m dangerous, that what we’re doing here is stealing…” Andrés spoke with calm gestures and a reasonable tone. “Well, let me steal a few more minutes of your time to tell you why we're in here.”

And he continued with the words the professor had written and rewritten for almost a month, until he made sure his speech was polished, measured and perfect. He began by clarifying that what they were doing was not stealing, because the money they planned to take didn’t have an owner. He linked it with corruption cases and the millions lost after the rescue - _and that money was yours, out of your pocket_ -, making a lucid criticism to the financial and political system. He continued to promise that the majority of the stolen money - _manufactured_ \- would be used in projects that he could not reveal _but that, I assure you, you’ll find very ethical_. And he ended with a half smile while asking his audience.

“Have you heard of Robin Hood?”

In just one hour, the video's content filled all the headlines. ' _The robbers of the Coinage and Stamp Factory, the new anti-systems’, The Robin Hood Band’, 'Andrés de Fonollosa promises an ethical use of money made fraudulently at the National Coinage and Stamp Factory’._

In just an hour, Andrés’ face was everywhere. And the debate began, which Sergio followed through forums, newspaper comments, television conversations and Twitter threads.

He didn't sleep that night. But when he called Andrés, he did it with a victorious smile stuck to his face.

“The people are in our favor. You have succeeded, partisan.”

And so it was. Because, although there were voices that disagreed and pointed out the demagogy of Andrés’ speech, and although the same president of the government took the stand to explain -with his usual vague and disjointed tone- that the fabricated money will have a negative impact on the financial system, no one cared.

The spanish population -the same which had crossed the terrifying economic crisis in fits and starts, which had seen how their purchasing power was reduced to a minimum while the press spat out case after case of corruption- was more willing to trust a criminal who appeared in a YouTube video than the person they had voted to govern the country.

“At least the guy in the video doesn’t hide that he dedicates to steal.” said a construction worker who was asked about it on the street, and whose response became top 1 on the _zapping_ programs.

The fact that Andrés was dying and that the robbery had resulted in zero casualties between the hostages reinforced his image in front of the spectator. Many found themselves confessing, loudly or quietly, _I wish I had the balls to do the same_.

And while the matter swelled in the light of television cameras and hashtags on Twitter, an internal order dropped from above to the inspector who was in charge of the case.

“Accept anything, but finish this _NOW_.”

Sergio tried not to smile when she confessed to him, in a tired telephone conversation, what he already knew.

“We’ll give them everything, Salva. Everything they are asking us for.”


	28. Chapter 28

It was the part Sergio had planned the most. Also the one he feared the most.

“Everything has to be done in a precise and measured way.” he often repeated to his team, who knew by memory the schedules and instructions provided by the professor. “Or all the work done in the previous months will have been in vain.”

There was no need to insist. It was obvious that the moment of the escape would be the most delicate, because it’d be when all of the State Security Forces would be prepared to take advantage of the slightest mistake. They would have to act with surgical precision.

“They have asked for several trucks.” the inspector told him in one of his multiple postcoital talks. “But we know they are digging a tunnel.”

Taking advantage of the darkness, Sergio smiled.

She was wrong. They hadn’t excavated a tunnel.

They had dug _two_ tunnels.

On the day of the escape, which the entire team had marked with a large red X on the calendar, a fleet of trucks headed towards the Spain's Royal Mint. In a perfectly tidy row, they arrayed at the door while their drivers got out and a handful of people dressed in the mask and the red jumpsuit -no one knew if they were thieves or hostages- drove them inside.

A few hours later, Berlin made a video call to the inspector's phone.

“We're ready to go, inspector. Do your part of the deal and I’ll do mine.”

By then, the police tried desperately to identify where the hostages were while assessing the idea of killing the robbers. They didn’t succeed, but a warning came from the team which was probing the subsoil around the Factory: sounds were heard coming from the place where the tunnel had been detected.

Tense, in the darkness of his den, Sergio heard the inspector give the order.

“Stop them.”

Immediately, he sent a message to Andrés with a single word:

_NOW._

Simultaneously, several things began to happen inside the Factory.

One, the trucks began to leave, driven by masked wearing red overalls. The police, who suspected they were hostages to whom the robbers had promised a piece of the cake, carried out orders to let them through.

Two, a special operation group entered the public sewerage and advanced to the point that connected the sewer to the tunnel. They had to move slowly and stealthily, trying not to be detected early.

Because Berlin was still there, surrounded by explosives and accompanied by who knows how many innocent hostages.

Three:

The band -without Berlin- used the second tunnel, Moscow’s masterpiece, which at this point they could cross with their eyes closed. In fact, they did so: they walked in the dark, trying to make as little noise as possible, smiling at each other as they advanced and occasionally the ground shook as if there had been an earthquake. Sign that they were approaching their salvation.

“Tokyo, how are you doing?”

“Almost there, professor.”

And while the trucks were incorporated into the highway -followed by infinite vehicles- and the group of operations broke into the first tunnel, illuminating with the flashlights of their rifles a large group of masked -too many to be the robbers- they crossed a grill and were incorporated, dressed in work overalls, to one of the service tunnels of the Madrid subway.

By the time the inspector received the notice that all the captured people had turned out to be hostages, the band had already changed clothes and dispersed, slipping over to the platforms and getting confused with the crowd that packed the trains.

“Stop the trucks.” Sergio heard the order from his headphones.

“But, inspector…”

“I don’t care! Stop the fucking trucks!”

And while the _usurer_ group took part of the highway and stopped the truck fleet dry, each one of the robbers emerged from a subway station some distance away from the National Coinage and Stamp Factory, heading to a public parking lot and putting themselves at the controls of a car loaded with bills.

"We won, partisan." Sergio murmured into the handset before giving the final order. “Now, get out of there.”

When the GEOs broke into the Factory, they found it completely empty.

No money, no hostages, neither, of course, Berlin.

Only the plastic explosive belt abandoned in a corner and a music player that looped a song that some of the police recognized as an old italian anthem.


	29. Chapter 29

Killing the inspector was never in his original plan.

But, as the robbery progressed and Sergio went over and over again over the escape route, it seemed increasingly clear.

His stomach shrunk the first time he thought about it. He felt disgusted as he evaluated it. He racked his brain trying to foresee all the options. Questioning himself in long nights of insomnia.

And finally, he made the call.

“Berlin, do you remember when I told you that the robbery could be done without spilling a drop of blood?”

He almost heard him smile.

“Wow. I see you’ve finally realized.”

It turned out that Andrés, of course, had already fallen into what, for Sergio, now seemed so obvious.

It was a loose end too risky. A person who had come to know him well, who could make a perfect robot portrait of his face and that would soon connect him to the heist when he disappeared overnight. Sergio knew that he’d never have peace if he simply ran away, leaving her alive. He knew that she’d hunt him with all the means at her disposal.

And although one of his specialties was to remain hidden, he was also realistic enough to know that it was too dangerous to spend the rest of his life with a hound following his footsteps.

“We'll have to…”

"Yes." Berlin confirmed calmly. “Well, unless you prefer to continue being with…”

_“Berlin.”_

“Hey, it's a possibility, given my circumstances.”

“You know which is the only possibility which I contemplate.”

“I had to try.” His tone softened, something that he rarely allowed himself to do. “I just want the best for you.”

“Well, let _me_ decide what is best for me.”

Andrés gave up, and the murder was fixed.

“I don't know how they could run away, Salva. I don't know how they could... Those bastards.”

When the sun fell down on the Coinage and Stamp Factory, the man who responded to the name of Salvador was there. He'd already become a habitual face in police precincts -although he was careful not to cross to areas where he wasn’t allowed to enter- and none of the tired and discouraged police officers gave him more than one look when he went to pick up the inspector.

The press gradually abandoned the place. The building was still restricted by police bands, but in a few hours officials would reoccupy it, erasing the remainings of the heist. The scientific police would comb the area, of course, but hardly anyone trusted them to find any valid clues. The robbers had proved to be -unfortunately for the authorities- conscientious and competent.

 _Salva_ had received her with a kiss on the lips and a takeaway coffee which the inspector thanked with a gesture.

“And you know the worst of it?” She snorted before taking a sip. “Most people support them.”

"I don't think that's the case." he murmured distractedly, finishing his own coffee in one gulp while consulting the rear mirror, waiting to poke a hole in the heavy traffic.

“Have you checked social media? I'm telling you, Salva, right now half of Spain is laughing at us and looking at these guys like heroes. It’s just… Fuck them!”

She took another furious sip, wrinkling the paper cup a little. The professor was startled, watching her from sideways.

"Don't pay attention to what people say, Raquel." he said, finally stepping on the accelerator. “You have done a good job. That’s what counts.”

“We've done shit. They have escaped. And with the money.”

“Well, it’s clear that they had it very well set up.”

He infinitely thanked her for not answering, focusing her attention on consulting her mobile phone -which hadn't stopped vibrating for a single second- and sipping her drink. Thus, Sergio was able to focus on traffic. Abstracted. Tried to forget about what he was about to do.

It was a bit difficult to have a conversation with the person you had planned to kill.

So he drove in silence, with no other specific objective than to get away from that area of Madrid. It was closing time for shops and offices, so traffic was heavy and the vehicle was moving slowly.

Sergio had planned that _too_.

And then, the inspector's cell phone vibrated again.

“Yes?… _What?_ ”

The professor pretended not to pay attention to the brief conversation. But, when she violently shook his shoulder, he had no choice but to turn his neck and look at her, surprised.

“Salva, turn around right now!”

“What? But Raquel, we are in…”

“Turn around, we have to go somewhere else.” She was smiling. A predatory smile which Sergio identified, while entering a route in the navigator of his phone and leaving it in the holder the professor had installed in the ventilation system of the car. “Try to hurry, but don’t attract attention.”

“What's going on?”

Raquel looked at him triumphantly.

“They have located Berlin. A patrol recognized him and managed to follow him to a half-abandoned house in the outskirts. Right now he's hiding there.” She punched the air euphorically. “They are watching him from afar. We don’t want to alert him until we have completely surrounded him... This time he won’t escape.”

Sergio nodded gravely. And when she squeezed his shoulder again, this time in a gesture of affection, he felt both relieved and deeply miserable.

He knew the address from memory. But, to hide it, he pretended to be about to make a mistake when turning the street a couple of times.

He parked a block away. It was a quiet residential neighborhood, the streets were practically deserted at that time.

"Good hiding spot, but you can't tease the police forever." Raquel scanned her surroundings, retrieving her mobile phone. “You stay here, Salva. That guy is dangerous.”

“I imagined.”

Sergio stared at her as she got out of the car, dropping the crumpled paper cup in a nearby bin. Then, her figure moved away along the wide sidewalk, lit by the powerful street lamps.

The professor typed something on his phone. And he waited.

“How do you know that she will take such a risk?” Berlin had asked.

“Because she’d have had made a fool of herself in the most talked about operation in recent years. And she’ll be desperate to try to save her reputation and her career.”

Indeed, as the inspector moved towards the place one of her colleagues had indicated, she began to perceive strange signals. No policemen met her, and her expert gaze didn’t detect camouflaged cars nearby. In reality, everything around her seemed perfectly normal, everyday and nondescript. Single-family houses where voices filtered from, some glow from a television and the clinking of cutlery and plates.

Except for the house she was approaching, which stood surrounded by a suspicious darkness. The front garden covered in shadows. A strangely open gate.

And Raquel knew something strange was happening.

But among the possibilities that crossed her mind -that his companions had decided not to wait for her, that Berlin had fled again, that the operation had gone wrong- none was correct.

That's why she decided to continue. And although she knew it was her last chance -that, if the delinquent slipped from her hands again, it would be the end-, she did it wrapped in a strange, and unreal, calm.

She didn't even care that the dry grass in the garden creaked under her shoes. She felt at peace while walking the few steps that separated her from the main door of the house. Halfway there, she reached for her underarm, carefully pulling out the gun. Holding it firmly between both hands.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she felt her legs heavy; she attributed it to the weariness of the day and the tension of the moment. She climbed stealthily, approaching the door. Very carefully, she leaned on it. And she thought she heard a distant music, barely noticeable to her ears.

There was someone inside.

She cocked the gun. She put a hand on the door. She waited, armed herself with courage. She counted to ten. She pushed.

It was open.

It opened before her silently. The hinges, well oiled, barely resisted or emitted the slightest sound. Satisfied, she adopted the defense position while scrutinizing the interior.

The whole house was dark. To her left, what appeared to be a hall was wrapped in gloom. To the right, a long corridor behind which a thin line of light could be seen under a door. She held her breath, stepping into the house little by little.

As she did, the music gained intensity. And Raquel had no doubts: it was the same one that had played at Spain's Royal Mint.

At another time, her pulse would’ve skyrocketed, the adrenaline would’ve galloped through her veins, her breathing would’ve accelerated. But that night, the inspector felt her nerves of steel, like an expert sniper who encases her victim without any doubt. She walked down the hall in silence, the gun pointed at the front. And although she should’ve been scared, she wasn't.

She just felt calm.

And then, when she was a few steps away from what the kitchen door should be, she heard a voice.

A voice that overlapped with the music, following the song in a serious, well-practiced tone.

_“E seppellire lassù in montagna, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao! E seppellire lassù in montagna, sotto l'ombra di un bel fior.”_

The inspector clenched her teeth.

Slowly, very slowly, she leaned her shoulder against the door.

“Police! On your knees and hands where I can see them!”

She burst into the kitchen like lightning, as she’d been taught, quickly locating the target to aim it with her weapon.

Or tried.

Because the truth is that her voice came out pasty. Her legs were shaking a little when she set foot inside. When she raised the gun, she thought it was too heavy.

And she found himself looking, face to face, at the robber known as Berlin.

“Andrés de Fonollosa, you are arres... Arrest…” she pleaded to form the last word. She had to lean on the counter. _“Arrested.”_

And even then she blamed it on fatigue, on nerves, on frustration. Still at that moment she thought everything was going well. That Andrés, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, unarmed and with trembling hands crossed on his lap, didn't present any challenge.

The thief smiled. Next to his elbow, on the table, a small portable player emitted the famous song.

_“E le genti che passeranno, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!”_

And then, out of nowhere, a voice replied:

_“E le genti che passeranno, Mi diranno «Che bel fior!»”_

A voice which the inspector recognized immediately.

She turned around.

“Salva.”

Her hair had bristled.

There, under the threshold of the door where she had been only a few seconds before, stood the man she knew as Salva.

And only at that moment -too late- she understood what was happening.

 _“«E questo è il fiore del partigiano», o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!”_ Andrés sang.

The inspector tried to aim the professor with her weapon, but only managed to raise it at mid-height before all the muscles in her arm loosened. Her fingers were unable to hold the gun when Sergio pulled it, snatching it cleanly.

 _“«E questo è il fiore del Partigiano, morto per la libertà!»”_ he murmured.

Raquel looked at him with wide eyes. She could barely stand up. The professor reached out to grab her when he saw her stagger. Holding her and helping her to sit on the floor.

“It’s ok, Raquel. It will be just a moment. It’ll not hurt.”

“Salva…” She had to make a tremendous effort to speak; it seemed as if her tongue was solidifying in seconds. “Salva... you... you are one of…”

“I am one of them, yes.”

Raquel looked at him, her face full of hatred.

“The coffee…”

“The coffee, the telephone, a voice synthesizer imitating one of your coworkers…” Andrés murmured from behind her. “You can't deny he's smart, my boy. I’d marry him, but I don't have much more time left than you do.”

The inspector's disengaged eyes shifted from the professor's face to that of Berlin.

“Why…”

“Because there is no other way to end this.” Sergio had fogged eyes. Raquel's body began to defeat itself; he held her head, laying it on the floor. “I'm sorry. I wish there was another way, but... It won't hurt. You will fall asleep, and it will not hurt. I promise.”

The inspector was almost completely defeated by the heavy dose of narcotics; but she managed to give him one last look -a desperate, pleading look that Sergio would always have stuck in his soul- before she became unconscious.

Andrés got up. He reached into the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, pulling out a small metal box.

“Let me do it.”

“But you can't even give yourself an injection!”

"This requires much less precision." He knelt on the other side of Raquel's unconscious body, opening the box and taking a syringe, already loaded. “Besides, I am the killer here. Not you.”

And -why deny it- for a moment Sergio felt relief.

But then he saw Andrés hold the syringe with his trembling hands. And without thinking about it, he snatched it away, putting his thumb on the plunger under Andrés’ perplexed gaze.

“I’m having none of that. I won’t leave you alone, not even in hell.”

That was how he became a murderer.

They saw sunrise from another car registered in behalf of a false name, in the middle of the Madrid's mountains.

Sergio would always have nightmares with that night and how they got rid of all the evidence that linked them to the heist. Starting with the vehicle _Salva_ had been using, and ending with the inspector's body.

And there he was. In the first sunrise of his new life.

It, curiously, tasted more bitter than he’d expected.

Andrés hadn’t spoken much in the last hours. Neither did he. He kept thinking about what he’d done. He couldn't help but remember the moment when Raquel stopped breathing, unconscious and lax in his arms. The inspector who’d been, at the same time, enemy and friend. The one who had trusted him to the point of allowing him access to her body. The woman he had betrayed.

A suffocating weight had settled on his shoulders. A weight that seemed to anchor him with more force to the ground, which slowed his steps; that would never abandon him. The weight of a life he had taken away.

And even so…

“Are you ok?

Andrés spoke at last, and he did when the sun finished conquering the sky. As if he had been waiting for the shadows wrapped around them to disappear completely to address him.

"No." Sergio said, swallowing hard. “But I think I’ll be.”

The robber nodded, looking out the window. He had one of his hands hooked to the armrest, and the other on the handle installed above the window. His partner knew he was doing it to mitigate the tremor.

“Are you mad at me?”

The thread of voice broke the silence as timidly as the first sunbeam had broken the unfathomable abyss of the night.

Sergio turned his neck. Confounded. Exhausted. Confused.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

Andrés examined his face and gave him a small smile. He never knew if of relief or sadness, but there it was; a small halo of light in the dark.

“Do you realize we haven't even touched?”

“What?”

It took him a moment to understand what he was talking about, because at that time his mind worked a couple of times slower. And it still cost him something else to realize that Andrés was right. It seemed incredible -it _was_ \- but he had been so blunted by pain, so absorbed in his own descent into hell, that he hadn't even touched him.

Months apart and he hadn't even given him a hug.

A gesture that, evidently, Andrés had interpreted in several different ways. All scary.

"I know I was the one who ended our relationship." Andrés continued. “At that time, it was necessary. And I want you to know that I wouldn't blame you if you decided to leave me anywhere and go away. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I am aware that I could not pay you in a thousand lives. But…”

It was not the first time Andrés spoke to him in those terms; it was his usual speech, the words with which -with some frequency- he tried to convince him of the inevitable. Normally, Sergio'd cut him angrily. And he was about to do it that morning.

But suddenly, he changed his mind.

He was _very_ tired, and Raquel's dead face still appeared when he closed his eyes.

So he decided to let him talk.

And apparently, Andrés was also waiting for the foreseeable moment when Sergio interrupted him. When it didn’t arrive, he remained silent for a while. Looking at him from the corner of his eyes.

He was tempted to hold on to his speech.

If he didn’t, it was because one saw things slightly different when having a few months left to live.

“But I need you.” And Sergio looked back at him, stunned. Andrés didn’t return his gaze, but kept it to the front. In the mountain that extended under the car. “And I don't mean injections, which at this point are of little use to me. I need you... I need you by my side, I need to see you machining in your projects, cook for you, you to mess up the whole house. I need to play chess with you and for you always beat me, do you understand, Sergio?”

Sergio nodded slowly. So overwhelmed that even the death of the inspector went to the background, totally relegated by the desperation transmitted by the words of his lover.

“Perfectly, Andrés.”

“I don't know how many months I have left. Five, six, seven?” He laughed to himself. “I only know that despite of what I have told you and done to you, in spite of what I have turned you into, I would like to live them by your side.” He took a deep breath. “If you still feel the same.”

“I will _always_ feel the same. I'm tired of telling you.”

Andrés finally looked back at him.

“I'm sorry you had to kill for me. I'm really sorry.”

Sergio smiled.

The gentle teacher, the perfect son-in-law, the quiet guy, had been left behind a long time ago.

“I am not.”

He had read a thousand tales in which love redeemed. In which love made a better person, more kind, more human.

In his case, the opposite happened.

For love he became a criminal. A murderer. A monster.

But he never regretted it.

He would _never_ regret anything he would’ve had to do for Andrés.

And when they finally shortened the physical distance that separated them, wrapping themselves first in a strong hug, and then in a passionate kiss, he knew that everything that had happened since the moment when Andrés had taken him hostage in that jewelry store had been worth it.

Even when his lover tried to raise a hand to his face and could not, emitting a growl of frustration.

“I can't grab anything anymore, Sergio.”

Even then, Sergio took his hand, squeezed it in his, took it to his lips to kiss it.

"I'll grab things for you, don't worry." he replied, arching an eyebrow.

Andrés laughed.

They stayed in the car, hugging each other, until the sun was high in the sky.

Only then did the professor separate from Andrés, buckled his seatbelt and started the car. Driving to their new life.


	30. Chapter 30

The doctor who takes care of Andrés is in the room again. Sergio finds her when he leaves the bathroom, standing at the foot of the bed.

Their gazes cross above the clipboard she holds.

“I think it's time to talk about your brother, Salvador.”

Talk, they have talked hundreds of times, always with Andres' recumbent figure as the monotheme of the conversation. But Sergio assumes that this is how things work, how the protocol that accompanies family members in the harsh transit to death is governed. The cushion which helps everyone feel somewhat safer among all this madness.

He nods.

They talk. Or, rather, she talks and he listens, sitting with his legs a little open and his elbows resting on his knees. She says nothing which he didn’t already know and at the same time she tells him _everything_ ; gives voice to concepts that remained floating in his subconscious, amorphous, ethereal. She states what he’s never dared to suggest.

“You have to make a decision. And you have to do it thinking about what is best for your brother.”

 _Make a decision_. Another wonderful padded euphemism, another shield to protect him from abrasions caused the roze with reality. Sergio knows that _making a decision_ is as easy as hitting a button or disconnecting a plug. Sergio knows that everything that keeps the organism that was once called Andrés de Fonollosa alive -an organism he loved and made him happy- is as artificial as the comfort provided by her medical jargon.

Sergio already knows that Andrés is dead, because it turns out that the bastard went to die in _his_ arms.

And even then, he is surprised when he finds swallowing difficult. When he can't find his own voice. When he notices tears in his eyes.

He is surprised that it’s difficult.

The doctor reacts with that mixture of modesty and professionalism.

“If you want I’ll leave for a moment…”

“No.” When he finally manages to say a word, it comes out firm and resounding. And his watery eyes meet with rage, but firmly, hers. “I don’t need to think. Do it.”

She waits for a moment, standing still.

Then, she nods.

“I will start the preparations.”

After another mandatory squeeze to the shoulder -which Sergio is grateful for- she leaves the room as silently as she broke into it.

And the professor gets up. Staggering until he manages to lean on the windowsill.

A few days after everything ended, when they were sure that the police hadn’t gotten to link them with their old house, the professor's new car parked in the driveway of what was his refuge for several years.

But neither of them hurried, because they were busy listening to the radio.

_“We will get to the bottom of the matter of the donations, and if we discover something that links them to the robbery in the Royal Mint, of course the government will have to confiscate the money.”_

_“Mr. President,” a journalist said. “Some of us are surprised by your rush to confiscate that money in contrast to how slow justice works in cases of corruption and misappropriation.”_

_“Uhh... Those issues you’re talking about have nothing to do with what we are dealing with. ”_

Sergio burst out laughing.

Andres was smiling, looking straight ahead.

The voice of the president of the government gave way to the presenter of the news.

_“The words of the president have already received a response from the majority of the leaders of the parliamentary groups, as you’ll hear next.”_

Sergio's finger brushed the radio button, without turning it off.

_“Mr. President, while we share your opinion in that you cannot leave those donations without investigating, we think that, again, neither you nor your party have lived up to the circumstances.”_

_“It is true that from my party we think that this government is far from being the alternative which Spain needs. On the other hand, it seems very coincidental to us that this whole issue of donations has jumped in full independence defiance towards the unity of Catalonia and Spain, and with the echo of the protests of the democratic opposition in Venezuela…”_

_“Mr. Rajoy, you are again proving to be a casta*, and bad casta.”_

_“What we are not going to allow is you having the shamelessness of throwing yourself like a vulture on donations that, for the moment, nobody has been able to prove fraudulent. We will not tolerate that you, who protects the rich without any kind of dissimulation as a good lackey of capitalism, assault the poor the slightest without waiting for the verdict of that justice which you always defend to cape and sword. ”_

Sergio turned off the radio.

“Do you think they will end up finding the origin of the donations?” Andrés asked, with sincere curiosity.

"It's possible." Sergio admitted. “It’s Rio and I against all the machinery of the State, and not even us are infallible. But I’d like to see how’d they get all that money confiscated.” He smiled mischievously. “I would like to see how people react, Andrés.”

The aforementioned remained silent.

The first time Sergio had confessed to him that the majority of the money made would be destined, through false donations, to different NGOs and charitable causes, it had seemed a real lunacy.

But, as soon as he expressed his doubts, Sergio threw himself into a passionate speech about capitalism, corruption, social justice, equal opportunities, justice spirit. For ten minutes, before the astonished expression of Andrés -who had never expected that, partisan or not, the ex math teacher would reveal himself as a whole anti-system- he defended his position so hard and with such conviction that, from that moment on, the former aristocrat couldn’t help but embrace his cause.

Although he still had his doubts.

“At least, they will be pissed off.” Sergio added, reading his mind.

“I don't know if that will help much.”

“It will. It has to, Andrés. People _have to_ wake up like Europe woke up before the nazis.” Andrés bit a smile. _There he goes again with the nazis_. “And one day the people will rise and cut off the head of those who suffocate them.”

“I hope you speak in a metaphorical sense.”

Sergio got out of the car while still talking.

“It has been done before and it’ll be done again. In moments of tyranny, in moments of injustice, people always come together and rise up.” He circled the car, approaching the passenger's door. Opening it. “And you and I will have contributed to it, partisan.”

He stuck his head inside with a smile.

Andrés kissed him.

“Help me out.”

The issue of donations hoarded up in the headlines for a week, along with the issue of the escape of the robbers of the Coinage and Stamp Factory, and the issue of the disappearance of the inspector in charge of the case. Afterwards, a new case of corruption was uncovered, a politician said some stupid thing, The Real Madrid lost some game, and everything was forgotten as if by magic.

For a month, Sergio enjoyed his glory days. He saw all the gatherings, read all the articles, surfed tirelessly through opinion forums. He continued reading when the front pages became the covers of the national team, first, and in short columns in increasingly remote places, later. He recorded all the newscasts until references to them ceased to appear. And he researched social networks until the hashtags and likes languished in the latest opinions about the assault.

Only then, he rested.

The first day Andrés didn't see him touch the laptop once, he knew it was over.

“Have we gone out of style?”

He had feared Sergio's reaction like a father awaiting the moment when his son discovered the truth about the Magi. His idealism and faith were too deep for the world in which he lived. But he was relieved to see that the professor seemed happy.

"Better that way." He extended a hand to help him keep his balance while he sat down, because, increasingly often, Andrés’ legs failed when flexing. “I know there’s people who’ll remember us, and that is enough for me. In addition, the government continues to investigate the issue of the donations, without result.”

"Rio did a great job." said the thief, settling on the couch with a grimace. “Do you know anything about them?”

The professor shook his head.

“It's also better that way.” he said.

But Andrés could see that it _did_ hurt him, even though it was him who planned how they would separate, how each of them would flee with their part, how -for safety- they’d try not to re-establish contact, for at least some time.

In spite of it, he also often found himself missing those days in the great rickety house, surrounded by wild nature. He missed the classes, his classmates, his furtive encounters with the professor.

He missed Berlin.

“It was good to be Berlin.” he found himself saying. Sergio gave him a curious look, so he had to continue. “I know he was a bastard. But do you know one thing? When you are busy being a bastard, you almost forget that you are a sick person who’s going to die.”

The professor nodded without commenting.

Andrés was right.

After the introduction and the knot of their history, they were left only waiting for the ending.

Sergio doesn’t cry the day Andrés dies.

There’s a little group of doctors and nurses in the, until then, lonely room. They swarm around the bed of the future dead as if they wanted to substantiate that there really is no alternative. While they check their complex machines and write down data with a mysterious air, a psychologist approaches Sergio and asks if there is no one to call.

“A relative, a friend who can help you in this trance...?”

Sergio shakes his head, biting his tongue to clarify he was already alone in the another trance, the worst trance, the day he _did_ cry knowing that Andrés was leaving. He could tell him that the two were always alone, two partisans fighting back to back, and that is how it should be. That he is not willing to share anything related to Andrés; not even his pain.

The psychologist stares at him for a moment, tries to insist, but finally closes her mouth and nods, giving him another of those therapeutic pats on the shoulder. Sergio stays there by the window, his back against the windowsill. Contemplating the horde in a robe as if they were foreigners invading their sanctuary.

There is something unreal in death. When his father was shot full of holes, Sergio spent a month waiting to see him come through the front door with his overgrown beard, his big grin and that unclean computer case that hid, in reality, the most succulent loots. Not even the sight of the grave managed to convince him. Only time and his long absence made him assume that he would never return.

There is also something surreal in that moment. In that death which already occured, that goodbye which was already said. Those tears that do not exist, because he has already shed them.

It’s hard to assume that, after pressing a button, Andrés will have disappeared for forever.

But there’s no better reminder of human fragility, there’s no greater corrective for the proverbial pride of man, than to see how existence depends on a machine connected to a socket.

After a brief conversation in whispers with her coworkers, the doctor approaches with a folder and a pen in hand.

“We need you to sign the consent.”

Sergio nods, looking lost. He hesitates only a moment before stamping his fake signature in the right place. He returns the form at the same time that the doctor turns to the others, making an affirmative gesture with her head.

There’s a new stir around Andrés.

“Will he suffer?” Sergio asks, although he has already heard a thousand times the answer to that question.

She responds in a wise and patient tone.

“Your brother is heavily sedated. He won’t notice anything.”

A nod. Another friendly pat on the shoulder. And then someone removes Andrés’ mask while another presses a couple of buttons.

Suddenly, the ubiquitous rumor of the automatic respirator fades away.

And that emptiness of sound reaches his ears with an atrocious force.

The doctor looks at him sympathetically as the army of white coats begins to parade through the door of the room.

“We will leave you alone.”

After the robbery and relocating to the house, the robber’s physical condition experienced another slight improvement. Calm, rested and with a regular meal schedule, for several days Andrés even seemed to be the same as always.

Of course, it was only a mirage.

For almost a week, the two had avoided excessing their affections, aware that it was not the time. With Andrés physically shattered and Sergio's mind still clouded by the murder of the inspector, they limited themselves to kissing and sleeping half-embraced like two insecure teenagers.

But when exactly six days passed since they left the Factory, Sergio entered the bedroom in the middle of the morning and found Andrés there, trying on one of his innumerable vest and tie suits in front of the mirror. The thief crossed his gaze with his in his reflection, over his own shoulder.

“I wanted to know if it still fitted. It does not seem that…”

He stopped dry his explanations when he saw how his boyfriend's eyes darkened, wetting his lips ostentatiously.

“Andrés.” he murmured, in a choked tone.

Andrés turned around with his arched eyebrows and half an ironic smile. And he’ll be damned if at that moment his lover wasn’t the same as always. Even the trembling of his hands was concealed by the long sleeves of the jacket. His dark circles, his paleness, almost disappeared.

“Do men in suits turn you on, _prof?_ ”

In response, Sergio emitted an animalistic growl.

And yes, for ten seconds he thought it could be as usual. Kissing Andrés until he moans, biting him on the lips, undressing him -hearing him snort every time he wrinkled one of his elegant clothes- and finally falling with him on the bed to one of their long sessions of unbridled sex.

Then, his arms closed around Andrés’ body.

And he came back to reality.

The reality of the bony body, the ribs that were practically marked through the clothes. Muscles that trembled against his arms. A reality that made him stay stiff, unable to prevent part of that surprise from reflecting on his face.

Andrés caught his reaction and abruptly turned away, throwing him an embarrassed look.

"I imagine you would have already realized that I have lost quite a bit weight." he murmured, tightly. “We don't have to…”

“I want to see you naked.”

He was speechless for several seconds, facing Sergio's confident gaze.

“What?”

"I haven't seen you in months." He reached out to pull his vest. Andrés barely reacted, although a button frayed dangerously. “I want to see you.”

Andrés closed his mouth and watched him with a frown. Sergio took it as an implicit permit and began unbuttoning his vest. The robber allowed him to remove it completely before speaking again.

“There's something I haven't told you.”

“What?”

“There are parts of my body that no longer work, or that work only when they feel like it. I don't know if I explain myself.”

Sergio didn’t smile.

“Perfectly.”

He attacked the buttons of his shirt with those same safe and parsimonious gestures. Andrés seemed to struggle between stopping or letting him continue. Wondering if his lover had _really_ grasped the idea.

When he was about to unbutton the last one, he couldn't take it anymore. He reached out with the objective of grabbing one of his hand, although the tremor prevented him from doing anything other than giving him a soft touch. In any case, it was enough for Sergio to stop and raise his head, looking at him from above his glasses.

“I think you haven’t understood…”

“I have understood.” Sergio affirmed while repositioning his glasses with his index finger. “And I don't care.”

"You don't care." he repeated incredulously.

Sergio raised his hands to place them on his cheeks. Grabbing his face and looking at him for a moment before kissing him on the lips.

“We will go as far as we can go, as far as your body lets us and you feel comfortable. I will make love to you until the end, Andrés, as long as I can and in any way I can.” He inclined his head. “If’d you like me to, of course.”

Andrés stared at him for a few more moments.

"Go on." he said at the end. With his voice hoarse of emotion.

Sergio pretended not to notice, and didn't make a single comment when Andrés turned his neck, looking away as he finished taking off his shirt. He passed it over his shoulders while looking at his torso, where the tight skin almost allowed his ribs to be counted with the naked eye. He couldn't avoid a sigh, but when he lowered his head and kissed him under the chin, passing the tip of his tongue to the beginning of the collarbone, it was Andrés who sighed.

“Sergio.” he murmured.

Sergio fell to his knees abruptly, causing the thief to flinch. They looked at each other, one hesitant, the other overflowing security. The professor’s fingers were already opening the fly. Andrés looked away again when he pulled his pants down halfway to his thigh.

He hadn’t lied. It was obvious that there were parts of his body that didn't work as well as before. However, that didn’t stop the professor, who stood up to kiss him from the belly button, going down to his thighs. He continued kissing and licking his inner thigh, barely touching him with his lips as he approached more sensitive areas. With no hurries.

Andrés shuddered when Sergio's hands moved from his hips to his buttocks, sliding a finger between them. He lowered one of his hands towards his head as a reflex, but at the last moment he stopped.

His lover looked up.

“Grab me,” he encouraged. “ hard.”

The thief obeyed, tangling his fingers between the tufts of the professor's hair to mitigate the tremors. If it bothered Sergio, he didn't show it. He leaned back over his boyfriend's groin, tempting him a little more -kissing the inside of his thighs while, back there, his index finger began make its the way inside- before putting it gently in his mouth.

Andrés let out air suddenly, clenching his teeth. His breathing had accelerated, and he emitted an unintelligible murmur when Sergio surrounded him with his lips and began to move his head.

A few seconds later, he groaned. And to Sergio that moan tasted like glory, noticing him harden in his mouth. Andrés moved his hand in a rough caress, pulling his hair. It hurted, but he didn't care. He stopped and took moment to smile.

“See? It seems that you’re still functional.”

The robber no longer had the strength to lift him as he did before, but he pulled his hair up and Sergio understood. He stood up, falling directly to his arms and lips. Andrés kissed him with impetus and rage, his mouth open and his eyes shiny. Pushing him to the bed.

“Fuck me, Sergio.”

He didn’t need to beg. Andrés dropped to his side as he undressed, pulling his clothes when Sergio finished unzipping zippers and unbuttoning buttons. He climbed laboriously over his body, entangling him in another endless kiss while Sergio held him with both affection and care.

When they separated, he frowned, examining him with concern.

"I don't want to hurt you." he said out loud, pointing at his fragile body. “And I don't know if you have the strength to be on top.”

Andrés shook his head.

“I’d get tired in a minute.”

“Come.”

Sergio grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him another wet kiss before helping him lie on the bed, placing him on his side. Then he took the lubricant out of a drawer and stood behind him, sticking to his back, putting an arm over his shoulders. When he leaned over him, Andrés turned his neck so he could look at him.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

They kissed before Sergio began to press, slowly penetrating him, attentive to each of the signals that came from Andrés. It seemed to him that it took _hours_ to completely bury himself in him, and yet he enjoyed it, stroking his hair, licking his neck. Finally staying still, eyes closed against the back of his neck.

"I love you." he whispered. “God, you don't know how much I love you.”

Andrés responded with a snort.

“More moving your ass and less nonsense, _prof._ ”

He obeyed.

And he always kept his promise to love him while he could, without being intimidated by the progress of the disease. Aware that sex, in whatever form, was one of the few reliefs that Andrés had left. Dealing with his growing weakness with all the patience and love of the world.

In the following days he added several cushions to their newly discovered position, making sure his lover was comfortable at all times.

A few weeks later, they decided to space their sessions so to not tire excessively Andrés’ battered muscles.

Two months later, he only dared to invade his body with his fingers. But he spent hours licking him until his body reacted, laboriously reaching orgasm.

A little later, Andrés' libido disappeared completely, killed by the pain that assaulted all his muscles as soon as he made the slightest effort. And yet he managed to get him aroused with just one of his arched eyebrow looks. Giving him an order that Sergio had to fulfill.

“Touch yourself. And let me see you well.”

Sergio was only able to cum when Andrés, with a lot of effort, crawled up to kiss him on the mouth.

He would always count it as the last time they made love.

From there until the end of his days, they could only hug or kiss very carefully. And most of the time, their contact was limited to him helping him lie on the couch, placing his head on his lap. Stroking his hair until the painkillers took effect and Andrés fell asleep completely.

Sergio doesn’t cry the day Andrés dies because it turns out he has used all his tears before. But despite this, a wet patina covers his eyes when he sits next to him, looking at his face for the first time without the obnoxious respirator mask.

“Andrés.” He’s choking on his words. “I'm here, Andrés, don't be afraid.”

He is convinced that Andrés listens to him, which may not really be such a good idea if he remembers that he promised _not_ to wait on his deathbed. But he trust him to be able to forgive him for that little slip. That he understands that he needs to sit next to him in that bed, hold his hand tightly. Take advantage of the loneliness to bow down and kiss him on his dry lips.

“I'm here, dear.” he murmurs, and smiles when he thinks Andrés would be roaring inwardly as he hears him call him that. “I'm here, with you, until the end.”

Sergio has always heard that death equals, and at that moment he cannot help thinking that it is so. Because Andrés dies like Raquel died, deeply sedated, his heart and his breathing slowing down as the few forces leave the muscles which make them work.

Andrés dies not making noise, Andrés dies slowly, Andrés dies and death equals the police woman and the thief, the servant of justice and the murderer. And Sergio wonders if at that moment, while he saw the inspector exhale her last breath, he could imagine himself doing exactly the same thing only a few months later.

Andrés de Fonollosa officially dies when the monitor which shows his vital signs indicates it, with the typical _beep beep beep_ getting slower and continuous until it becomes a long and fatal whistle. The signal of the absence of pulse, the signal of death; the signal Sergio doesn't need.

Andrés finishes dying and Sergio can only stare at his face, wondering what difference there is with the one he has contemplated in the last ten minutes or ten days. Thinking that nothing has changed in the relaxed expression, neither in the inert hand, nor in the figure sunk in the mattress, which a while ago was a body and now is just a corpse.

Sergio swallows hard and raises his hand for the last time to bring it to his lips, depositing a long kiss, his eyes closed, the deadly beep thundering in his ears.

“Rest in peace, partisan.”

And not even when he lets go, placing his arms stretched out next to his body, fixing his thin and sparse hair a little -he knows that Andrés would’ve wanted to be presentable in death, since he couldn’t be in his last month of life- he starts to cry. Not even when he moved away from the bed, looking out the window at that sunny and bright world in which the love of his life no longer exists.

Not even then does moisture turn into a tear. Because Sergio has had a broken heart for a long time, from the day he said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(casta): From what I understood (I am not spanish but I speak spianish), casta refers, contemptuosly, to the established political elite.


	31. Chapter 31

In a certain moment of a terminally ill person's life there’s a turning point, a day in which what everyone strives to ignore becomes visible and obvious. Materializing as the great elephant in the room and forcing everyone’s eyes on it.

For Andrés, it was that day.

“Sergio.”

For a week he’d been barely able to move without help. Sergio picked him up, put him to bed, took him to the bathroom, showered and fed him. He made him swallow an explosive amount of painkillers after another, and lay on his lap, holding his head while he slept.

That morning, however, there was something new in Andrés’ voice. And it took Sergio just a moment to realize, with growing horror, what it was.

_Fear._

"It hurts a lot." the robber confessed, trying to force a smile that turned in a wince. “I can't stand it.”

Such a confession on the lips of someone so stoic made his hair stand on end. Andrés rarely complained about pain; Sergio had to identify his bad days by his mood swings and the intensity with which he clenched his jaw when he helped him up.

He had long since obtained some morphine, but his partner shook his head when he saw him get up to reach the dripper.

“It's no use, Sergio," he replied in a broken voice, looking for his gaze. “no longer.”

Sergio dropped his arms, lax.

It was the scariest moment of his life.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

They both knew what that meant.

His soul cracked when he saw Andrés directing a glance around him, to the familiar dining room environment, posing his eyes on each one of the objects, tables, shelves, lamps, picture frames. As if he wanted to engrave in his retinas the image of the place where he’d been happy.

Aware that, once he abandoned it, he would never come back.

He then swallowed, gesturing for Sergio to pass the water bottle. He helped him drink, placing the mouthpiece on his lips. A few drops fell down his chin, wetting his shirt collar.

Then he fixed his eyes on him.

“Yes.”

And Sergio nodded.

“I'm going to get dressed and prepare everything. Give me ten minutes.”

It only took five, because a couple of weeks ago he’d prepared a bag with his personal belongings and a couple of changes for Andrés. It was enough to put a toothbrush, his cellphone charger and whatever else, while racing down the stairs. Andrés was waiting for him with the same expression of pain on his face, his eyes tightly closed. He didn't even open them when he heard him arrive.

“Let me put this in the car and go grab the chair.”

“Hurry up.”

Sergio went to the car and threw the sports bag in the back seat roughly. Then he reached the wheelchair that had been waiting there for several weeks, folded against one of the walls. His lover’d growled when he bought it, refusing to use it at home. But he didn’t protest when he saw him appear with it, aware that he was no longer able to take a single step.

The professor took him in his arms to place him on it, raising him with an awful ease. The same ease with which he released him in the passenger seat half a minute later.

Neither of them said a single word.

In silence, the car started on the way to the nearest hospital.

And Andrés turned his neck silently, saying goodbye to his house forever.

The robber entered the clinic under a completely false profile -one of Rio's last favors-. A guard helped Sergio put him in another wheelchair, and the professor felt completely helpless when he took his witness, taking his boyfriend through the tangle of corridors that led to the nearest elevator.

He formalized the papers and was taken to the head of neurology, who received him with a circumspect air and no gentle treatment.

“If he doesn’t react to treatment, it is best to induce a coma.”

It wasn’t necessary to clarify that it was a coma from which he would never wake up.

He spent the afternoon in a recondite waiting room, accompanied by another half-dozen mute and desperate relatives.

The walls of the bright hall seemed to narrow, hovering over him, when they finally allowed him to enter Andrés’ room.

And there he saw what he’d never wanted to see.

His lover sunk in bed, fully awake, with a mask of despair on his face. Suffering.

His eyes met those of the professor when he closed the door firmly. Entering for the first time to the room where he was destined to spend so many hours.

“How are you?” He asked just to ask.

Andrés shook his head. His breathing was irregular and accelerated. He sweated profusely through all the pores of his body. He trembled from head to toe.

Sergio leaned on the bed beside him. Holding his hands.

“They say…” He spoke at last, with difficulty. As if it cost him even to control his vocal cords. “They say I need your consent.”

“My consent?”

He didn’t understand. Not immediately. Not until Andrés fixed his reddened and deranged gaze on him. Not until he managed to return his handshake with his broken muscles, speaking in a hoarse voice that seemed to belong to another person.

“Let me go, Sergio.”

“What?”

"Let me..." He made a face full of pain. “And leave. Live your life. I don’t need you anymore.”

“I don't plan to go anywhere.”

"You promised me." He managed to incorporate his neck a little, looking at him with even more intensity. “Please. _Please_ , Sergio, let me rest.”

He said the last part of the sentence with a voice so weak that Sergio almost had to read his lips.

He closed his eyes as Andrés let himself drop to the bed.

“Are you sure?” he asked, not opening them.

From the darkness that filled his head came the answer, almost inaudible.

“Completely.”

Sergio raised his head and looked at him, nodding.

“I'm going to tell them to do it.”

And although it felt like dying just thinking about it, the relief that took possesion of Andrés’ face was so obvious that he had no doubt that he was doing the right thing.

"Thank you." he sighed, relaxing. And at the last moment, when Sergio was already incorporating to walk away: “ _Prof._ ”

“What?”

He gave him another stare.

“Don't leave me alone.”

Sergio nodded again.

“Don’t worry.”

His eyes began to water when he saw the first drop descend from the plastic bag to the intravenous needle attached to Andrés’ arm.

“Don’t cry.”

The doctor had left them alone after hanging the bag on the hook. In about ten minutes, fifteen at most -she said- Andrés would fall into a deep coma. Safe from the grip of pain.

But not of death.

Sergio gave a bitter smile.

“You’re leaving me and you don't want me to cry.”

In his last moments, Andrés was strangely serene and lucid. As if the imminence of the end of his suffering had given him extra strength to cope with the situation.

"I'm leaving because I have to." He managed to raise a hand for a moment, briefly stroking his cheek. Sergio caught it on the flight, kissing it with fervor. “Do you believe in any god?”

Sergio raised his eyebrows.

“What relevance does that have now?”

“It is the kind of questions that people ask themselves at this types of moments” he confessed, showing his old cynicism. And then he was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his lips trembled. “I'm scared, Sergio.”

Sergio swallowed part of his tears before answering.

“Of God?”

“Of what there can and can't be. Of ceasing to exist. Of being without you.” He swallowed. “I want to stop suffering and at the same time…”

“Don’t think about that.”

He leaned over him, grabbing his cheeks once more to give him a very long kiss.

The last that Andrés was able to correspond.

When he separated, the robber also had his eyes full of tears. And Sergio didn't need to explain the terror, the doubt, the immense grief he saw in them.

And he knew that, despite his pain, and although every minute that passed he felt something slowly cracking inside his chest, he still had one more mission in life. One more debt to that man he'd met when he’d pointed a gun to his head, whom he had helped assemble the greatest robbery in the history of Spain, whom he had sent to jail.

The unscrupulous narcissistic sadist who had made him immensely happy.

He knew it was his last minutes of conscious life. And that he should help him pass them in the best possible way.

That's why he settled beside him on the bed, leaning over him, running his arm under his head. Cradling him like a child.

And he felt how he relaxed in his arms, who knows if it was a consequence of his heat or the drug that was already entering his veins, spreading through his body. He felt the fear and tremor subside and gave himself to the comfort of that hug.

Sergio knew _exactly_ what he had to do.

_“Stamattina mi sono alzato, o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao…”_

Andrés gave a slight smile.

 _"Stamattina mi sono alzato"_ he muttered in his weak voice, barely able to sing. _“E ho trovato l'invasor.”_

They sang in whispers, still staring into each other's eyes. Their last duet, two broken voices overlapping. They sang with one’s voice more and more broken; the other’s more and more doughy. They sang while the drops fell relentlessly, and the pain was withdrawing into a hidden place in his brain from which it would never come out again.

Sergio held him tightly while still muttering the song, even when Andrés’ lips kept moving without producing any sound. His last tribute to the partisan who was dying in his arms. His last gesture of affection towards the man who had been the love of his life.

He will always think that Andrés saw the moment come, that in the last seconds of consciousness he reached a state of peace where there was no longer pain nor sorrow. Because, while he whispered the final verses of the song, he gave him one last smile and his last words.

“I love you, _prof_ , Sergio.” And his eyelids, already heavy, began to close as he let out a barely audible murmur. _“E questo è il fiore del Partigiano, morto per la libertà.”_

A moment later, his consciousness ceased to exist forever.

And Sergio, finally, could burst into tears.

Hugging Andrés’ body, he cried until he was dry, until he ran out of tears. He cried as he felt his heart falling apart and, for the first time in his life, the combative professor -the ardent partisan- lost the will to fight.

No one notices the man who ascends laboriously along the path.

He wears exactly the same as the other hikers -mountain boots, long _trekking_ pants, breathable short-sleeved t-shirt-, a hat, sunglasses, a cane in his hand and carries the mandatory backpack. He looks fit, but every few minutes he stops to drink water, taking a moment to contemplate the landscape. He smiles and says hello when he crosses a group.

No one would say that he’s a thief, let alone that he’s a murderer.

But all that and much more is what is the man who once again starts to walk uphill, making a face as he sticks the tip of his cane in the irregular and stony ground. A thief, a murderer. A genius. A chess master, an excellent math teacher.

And a man in mourning, desperate and broken.

A man who's been sleeping alone and in silence for more than a week. Sharpening his hearing in the dark in search of breaths that are no longer there. Looking melancholically at the empty board on which he sometimes mechanically arranges the pieces, as if he were waiting for an invisible opponent to appear out of nowhere.

For that reason he’s there, defying his legs and his lungs, on that splendid morning that invites you to leave the house and hang out at the mountains. Undoubtedly in other circumstances he would have enjoyed the pleasant temperature, the sights -if he turns his neck he can see the flashes of the sun over a rabidly blue lake- and the communion with Mother Nature. But today Sergio is not just any hiker, nor is his uniform more than a costume, a façade with which to deceive the eyes of others.

Under the sports brand shirt beats, more rabid than ever, the heart of the partisan.

A partisan with one last mission.

And he will fulfill it, his grandfather is a witness, no matter how eternal the road becomes for him, no matter how the weariness of the last months have undermined his physical resistance. No matter how the much backpack weighs, turning each step into a tremendous effort of will. No matter how he knows that nothing will await him behind that mountain; only the loneliness of an empty house, of a solo game.

But he tries not to think about it, he just ascends mechanically, sticking the cane in the ground, sinking the sole of his boots. He goes up, up and up, and only when he realizes that he has reached the top -a sign marks the end of the hiking route, also recalling the prohibition of bonfires and leaving garbage on the ground- his forces overcome him, collapsing on the ground. Unable to take another step.

He reaches his water bottle, drinking half and throwing the rest down his face. He notes the taste of sweat on the lips, the freshness that wets the neck of his shirt. That relieves him. It makes him feel alive.

Then he takes a deep breath, leaving the bottle aside, pretending to admire the landscape. His eyes are fixed on the lake, which even at that distance looks deep. He can't help wondering what would it be like to walk to its shore, sink, get carried away. What would it feel like when your lungs fill with cold, muddy water.

It’s not the first time suicidal thoughts assault him.

He thought about it during Andrés’ long convalescence and the idea has continued to haunt him more intensely since the death of his lover. In those long sleepless nights, the temptation to list ways to end his life, valuing their pros and cons, was almost irresistible. It was clear that cutting his veins was not an option -too painful- nor did he find it appropriate to do it with Andrés’ gun, which he still keeps inside his safebox as if it was gold bars. Crashing his car seemed cumbersome, inefficient and potentially dangerous to other people.

He could also find another dose of the strong anesthetic that ended Raquel's life. But, being honest, he didn't feel like having to pull on old contacts.

His preferred option was to do it with a cocktail of common medicines, which he could get from any pharmacy. It only took him half an afternoon -sitting in front of the computer with a cup of coffee- to find the mixture and the exact dose that would peacefully end with his life.

He didn't get to buy them.

Because one of those nights he dreamed of Andrés, and it was such a lucid dream that he could even decide the movements of the chess game they were playing. And in the end, the thief looked into his eyes and smiled.

“Do you know why I know this isn’t real, _prof_?”

“Because I let you win.”

Upon waking, he still felt the shadow of a kiss on his lips.

He realized then that he didn’t want to die. As long as he was alive, Andrés would live in his dreams. In his memory. In those traces of his cologne he sometimes caught, when he approached his closet, when he brushed his side of the pillow. While he was still standing, there would be someone who would tidy up his suits, take care of his books.

Someone who would deposit a flower on the partisan's grave.

Sergio stands up when he thinks fit, when he’s heard the voice of the last hiker a while ago. On the weekend, the route is busy, but on that particular day there are hardly a handful of mountain addicts. That, and not another, is the reason he’s have waited so long to decide to climb.

He leans again on the cane, turning his back on the overwhelming landscape that extends beyond the hillside. He deviates a little from the path, entering that rugged and untamed terrain he likes so much. Very carefully, he sneaks between the trees, bordering the mountain.

He doesn't know what he’s looking for. But he knows he will recognize it as soon as he sees it.

And, finally, there it is.

Sergio smiles, and smiles as a knot of emotion grips his throat. Because a meter down the hill, among the bony roots of a tree, he could see a flash of color.

A flower.

With great care, taking extreme precautions when leaning on the cane, the professor descends. His boots slip an instant on the earthy slope, but he manages to balance himself in time, leaning on the tree trunk. Not minding getting dirty when he drops to his knees.

It is a yellowish flower, a solitary flower that has managed to survive by taking advantage of the shadow cast by the tree -several of its siblings lie aside, dry and riveted-. Sergio does not know what species it is nor does he care. It's not especially pretty. But it's clear -yes- that it’s a survivor.

He raises his head to scan the horizon. From that spot the lake is barely visible, but the mountain extends majestically under his feet. Peaceful, lonely and quiet.

The perfect place for a grave.

He takes off his backpack, sighing with relief when his wet back is free of its weight. He puts it between his knees, opening the zippers. He widens his mouth to the fullest before putting his hands inside.

Very carefully, he takes out a small metal urn, tightly closed. He leaves it for a moment on the floor, getting back on his feet, careful not to slip this time. Taking care to dry his palms on his pants before bending to pick it up.

He opens the lid. Inside awaits the handful of ashes that once were Andrés. Sergio looks at them a moment before bowing and, with great care, dumping them. Letting them spread in the light breeze.

He knows that this is what he would’ve wanted because, after all, he asked him a thousand times.

 _“E seppellire lassù in montagna, sotto l'ombra di un bel fior”_ he mutters to himself.

He kneels down again, stroking the flower carefully, just rozing it with his fingertips. Then he leans a little more, until he can touch it with his lips.

He waits for a moment, closing his eyes while taking a deep breath of its light fragrance.

Then he stands up.

A long descent back awaits him and, since he’s decided to live, he’s better do it before nightfall. He puts the urn in a plastic bag before storing it in the backpack. He hangs it, adjusting the strap that crosses his chest. He grabs the cane, sinking its tip into the ground.

But he doesn't get his feet to get going. Limiting himself to standing there, contemplating the rebel flower, breathing deeply the pure air of the mountain and feeling the presence of Andrés everywhere.

He does not know if he will climb there again. He doesn't know where he’ll go. He doesn't know what he’ll do. He doesn't know if he’ll still be alive in a month.

But he does know one thing:

Wherever he is, his soul will stay there forever. Up there, in the mountain. On that hillside of wild nature that descends steeply, with the flash of the lake on the right. In that silence that only the chirping of the birds and the hum of some insects break.

He will stay there and dream again and again about that place.

Seeing when closing his eyes those wiry roots that twist, rising from the earth, creating nooks full of shadow and wet earth.

As if they too wanted to protect the beautiful flower in whose shadow will rest, eternally, the tomb of the brave partisan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos! I really enjoyed translating this work.  
> Pls go support the original author --> [lobazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobazul/pseuds/lobazul) She has other beautiful works.  
> Stay safe! <3<3


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